


the other way to someday

by theslap (bigspoonnoya)



Series: mr. connor & friends [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sexting, Single dad Hank and teacher Connor, Slow Burn, cole is alive, it's cute but it's also sad, like me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 19:39:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 84,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15780738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigspoonnoya/pseuds/theslap
Summary: Cole's teacher is annoying. He's also attractive. For Hank Anderson, that's a bad combination.





	1. sweating it

**Author's Note:**

> hi! warnings for discussion of alcohol abuse, death/cancer mentions, and really bad decisions all around.

It’s been an unusually hot summer. Summers never used to get this hot. Or maybe when you’re young the heat feels different, less stifling, more sympathetic.

Even in the evening, with the old air conditioning unit in his classroom alternatively blasting cool-but-musty air and spluttering condensation, Connor has to arrange fans throughout the room to achieve a bearable temperature: one on the corner of his desk, another on the bookshelf, a bigger one in a box on the window sill. He’d purchased the fans himself, or brought them from home; they weren’t in the budget. The heat doesn’t bother him, personally, but the room will only get warmer once the students arrive, and he wants the parents to be comfortable tonight, so they know their children will be similarly taken care of.

He doesn’t get nervous, even on a night like tonight, because he is always a little nervous on some level and it’s easy enough to handle these things with your brain in perpetual second gear. Fussing is so natural to him it’s not fussing, not really. He checks his own work meticulously to pass the time: the arrangement of the paper cups and lemonade on a table at the back of the room; the sign reading WELCOME SECOND GRADERS, each letter cut from blue construction paper and stapled to a corkboard in perfect alignment; the tidiness of the desks, divided into seven clusters of four. Connor has named each cluster after a continent, and hung laminated signs from the ceiling featuring facts about those places—the signs flutter awkwardly when a fan catches them, but the movement is hypnotic in a pleasant, soothing way.

After checking and double checking, Connor still has fifteen minutes before the parents arrive. He props open the classroom door and takes a seat at his desk. Sounds of scrambling coworkers—frustrated sighs and tired laughs and the occasional shriek—float in from the hallway. He folds his hands in his lap. The ticking of the clock above the chalkboard is audible, even with the fans.

There’s a click in the back of his head, a memory of something he forgot to check. He opens the desk’s bottom right drawer (necessaries, first aid, toiletries) and draws out a small hand mirror.

As he’d suspected: a flyaway. He attempts to tuck it back in line, and then tries again with a little spit on his fingers, which works better but not completely. It is probably not worth being upset over, he tells himself, frowning at his reflection.

Voices rush the hallway. Connor stows the mirror, shuts the drawer, gets to his feet, and flips on his smile.

Connor has done the parent orientation shpeal five times now. It comes easily to him. He knows what to expect. The ones with the exhausted stares, the ones who don’t look up from their phones, the couples that argued in the car on the way here. The ones who squint curiously at him because they didn’t expect a clean-cut, well-dressed man in his early thirties for their kid’s second-grade teacher—once he had a mother tell him, flatly, that he doesn’t “seem like the finger-painting type.”

The ones who arrive late. His least favorite.

This year, the Late Arrival is a middle-aged, silver-haired man in a coat a size too big for him. He puts his hands up sheepishly, as if apologizing. He is fourteen minutes late, which Connor knows because he pauses his discussion of the homework policy to turn and look at the clock. A mother in the front row chuckles. The Late Arrival, sufficiently embarrassed, takes a seat in the back of the room.

Connor resumes his discussion of the homework policy. The rest of the night goes according to strictly regimented schedule, and he’s able to dismiss the parents at nine on the dot. They filter out, some coming by on the way to introduce themselves or ask a question, forming a sloppy line away from his desk. He’s professionally patient, as always.

Connor reaches, after fifteen minutes, the last parent in line, and finds himself staring into the face of lateness. Lateness has a beard and light eyes; he is somehow less haggard up close, and he looks younger, despite his silver hair.

He sticks his hand across the desk, toward Connor. There’s a masculine confidence about the gesture, like he assumes Connor will shake back, because he is a man, and Connor is also a man, and they are both men, and this is what men do. Or so it would seem.

He’s so confident he’s started talking before Connor has fully processed the offering: “Wanted to apologize for coming in late. Work, you know. I’m Hank Anderson.”

Connor is still looking at the hand. Two more seconds of nonresponse, he realizes, and he will make things _strange_ ; this is not something he minds, but he also has enough sense to realize this is not the best take-away adjective for meeting his students’ parents.

Connor slips his hand into Mr. Hank Anderson’s larger, thicker one, and gets a firm pump. He wonders about the origins of the hand-shake. He wonders if anyone else thinks it’s a bizarre ritual. He feels like he knows too much about Mr. Anderson from a handshake, like he shouldn’t be quite so familiar with the feeling of a stranger’s palm. “You’re Cole’s father,” he manages. He has already memorized his roster.

“Yeah. I filled out this thing—” Mr. Anderson indicates the survey Connor distributed to the parents. The rest of these papers are stacked neatly on Connor’s desk. Mr. Anderson’s survey has somehow become crinkled and creased, with a corner missing, in the forty-five minutes he’s had it. “But, uh,” Hank continues. “This thing about availability for the parent-teacher thing… I gotta watch Cole in the evenings. There’s no one else who can do it, really… So can we do that over the phone?”

“Over the phone?” This is not the first time Connor has gotten this request. In a handful of cases, he’s offered a phone conference to parents with emergencies, but when a parent requests it immediately, he takes that as a red flag. “Most parents hire a babysitter for the evening of their parent-teacher conference.”

“Babysitter.” Mr. Anderson nods. “Yeah, it’s a good idea. I don’t have one. Don’t know one.” Connor blinks once, and then again. He isn’t being judgmental, but Mr. Anderson must read it that way, because he jumps into an explanation bordering on defensive. “We moved here like a month ago, okay, and I got this new job—my partner’s watching Cole right now, ‘cause I haven’t made a whole lot of friends in the neighborhood yet—sorry, what are you writing?”

Connor tears the slip of paper from its pad and slides it across the desk. “Try this number. I know a few parents who’ve used him. His name is Markus.”

Mr. Anderson looks at the note for what Connor can only think of as a _protracted_ period. It’s not clear what perplexes him about a name and a phone number, until he asks, “You wrote that down from memory?”

Oh. Right. “I have hyperthymesia. Highly superior autobiographical memory.”

Hank’s mouth hangs open. He doesn’t know what that is. It’s comically obvious, though Connor doesn’t laugh. Connor never really laughs.

Of course, Cole’s father isn’t the first person to need more of an explanation. “I remember life events in unusually vivid detail. I could tell you what day of the week it was when I lost my last baby tooth, and so on. Phone numbers are simple enough.”

“Huh,” says Mr. Anderson. “Wow. ‘Kay.”

Connor looks down, at the wood grain of his desk. “I frequently tell my students that learning to be punctual at a young age can set them up for future success.” He lifts his chin to meet Mr. Anderson’s eye again. “Just so you know, Cole will be hearing something similar.”

There’s a long moment where Mr. Anderson doesn’t speak, and his slack-jawed expression doesn’t change. Then he snorts, loudly, startling Connor. “Jesus. You’re never gonna forget that I was late one time, are you? You don’t forget anything.”

“The one time you were late is the one time I’ve met you, Mr. Anderson.”

“It’s Lieutenant, actually, if you’re gonna be…” Mr. Anderson gestures vaguely. Lieutenant Anderson gestures vaguely. “Thanks for the recommendation.”

“You’re welcome. I’m looking forward to meeting Cole.”

“Yeah, he takes after his mom, you’ll like him.”

Connor smiles. It’s a genuine smile; with it comes a lightness in Connor’s chest that approximates delight or amusement; Connor watches this smile catch Lieutenant Anderson offguard. He almost staggers from the impact. An interesting reaction, to say the least.

Connor takes a seat at his desk and begins flipping through the parent surveys. “It was nice meeting you, Lieutenant Anderson. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks for our conference.”

Lieutenant Anderson scratches his beard, takes a long look at Connor, and begins to nod as if it might shake some thought from his head. “Yup. Couple of weeks. I’ll call this Markus guy.”

Connor doesn’t say anything else—what else is there to say?—and the next time he looks up from the surveys, he’s alone in his classroom once again.

 

 

 

 

 

Hank makes it out of the room, down the hall, through the front doors of the school, and into the driver’s seat of his car—and then he loses it.

“What the fuck?” He rests his forehead against the steering wheel and a wild groan tears out of him. “Fuck.”

His lack of understanding about what the fuck is happening to him in this moment only makes the problem worse. He’s taking punches from every direction, from shame and frustration and annoyance and whatever happened when that guy _smiled_. Apparently when the world’s most unsmiling second grade teacher smiles at you, your guts explode? Or some shit?

Today at the station was bad, so he doesn’t know why he assumed tonight at the school would be better. Cole is the only part of his life worth living, but that doesn’t make everything that comes with him livable, and that includes being condescended by a toothpick in a sweater.

He gives his head a good smack against the wheel and mutters a string of swears until his breath while he starts the car.

The toothpick. That smile. What’s his name? Hank digs for it and remembers seeing _Mr. Connor_ written in a stupidly neat cursive somewhere on the board. Connor—first name or last name? And why spend your energy making sure Hank feels like a shit dad, then turn around and smile like that?

‘Like that.’ Hank spends the drive home dragging himself back to reality: there was nothing special about the smile Connor gave him, except that it reminded him of what a dirty old geezer he became somewhere along the way, thinking thoughts about men half his age—still just a fucking _kid_ , really, and his son’s teacher too. Settle down and have some shame, Hank.

He’s the kind of guy to snap a toothpick in half, anyway, he tells himself as he pulls into the driveway. His biggest takeaways from this encounter are 1) don’t be late for your parent-teacher conference, you fucker and 2) download a hook-up app.

Oh, and—he pulls the paper Connor gave him from his pocket. Call the babysitter. The handwriting is the same as the name on the chalkboard, that incredible cursive. Hank’s cursive looks like dog shit. He always thought the younger you were, the worst your cursive, but Connor’s an anomaly, apparently. He’s a weird little dude, with a weird little appeal, and Hank might be nervous about trusting him with Cole if he didn’t already seem confident in the superiority of his child rearing skills over Hank’s. Not that he’s got a high bar to clear, there.

Gavin’s going to have a shit fit if he has to watch Cole for an extra fifteen minutes while Hank sits in the car and thinks about his various failures as a man and a father, so he makes himself get out and go inside. This year, him and Cole in a new house in a new town, Hank with a new job and a new partner—things are supposed to be different now, right? Maybe something good is waiting for him here, even though he can’t see it when he closes his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

“Did you give my number to a parent?”

Connor looks up from his morning paper, to where Markus is standing in the kitchen doorway, looking cross. “Yes.”

“So that would be why some guy called me just now and asked if I could babysit tonight.”

Lieutenant Anderson, waiting until the last minute. Not surprising. “…Can you?”

“I haven’t taken a babysitting job in three years, Connor.”

“He seemed desperate.” Connor scans Markus’s expression for signs of empathy. “If you do it, I’ll take care of your dishes for a week.”

“You already wash my dishes before I even get a chance to.” Markus sighs, folds his arms across his chest. “I can’t tonight. I need to work. And I’m not doing the starving artist side jobs, anymore.” He turns to go, then adds firmly, “But I appreciate you trying to throw them my way. I know it’s because you care.”

Connor nods, if somewhat tepidly. This is not the outcome he’d hoped for.

At the student drop-off that morning, he waits for the dark blue SUV he knows will contain Cole Anderson and his bright red backpack, and motions to another teacher, _I’ll be right back_ , jogging to catch the car before Cole gets out and his father drives off. He arrives just as the rear door pops open and Cole slides out.

“Good morning, Cole. I just need to talk to your dad for a moment.”

“Good morning, Mr. Connor!” says Cole, and he bobs off to join his friends.

Connor then sticks his head through the open window of the passenger door and says, “Lieutenant Anderson.”

It would appear that Lieutenant Anderson, who’s wearing sunglasses and holding coffee, did not see Connor walk up to the car, because he yells, “Jesus fucking Christ!”

“We’re at an elementary school, Lieutenant.”

The lieutenant leans across the car, toward Connor. “Jesus _fudging_ Christ. Better?”

Connor decides, for lack of a response and the mounting traffic behind the Anderson car, to blow past this rebuttal. “I was hoping to talk to you about our conference tonight. I know the babysitter I recommended to you couldn’t do it. Did you find anyone else?”

“I didn’t, no. Are you going to give me a phone conference like I asked?”

“I was thinking you could bring Cole along, actually.” Lieutenant Anderson’s expression is mostly obscured by his sunglasses, so Connor can’t quite read his reaction. “I think he should be all right reading in the teacher’s lounge, don’t you?”

“That’s fine. I’ll do that.”

“Okay. Then I’ll see you and Cole tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Connor pulls back from the window and away from the car and watches Lieutenant Anderson drive off.

 

 

 

 

 

Cole asks a lot of questions. He’s a smart kid, or at least smarter than Hank was, and part of that is the questions. And it’s great, and he’s proud, and he’s going to encourage that spark of intellect so Cole can make something of it, someday.

But sometimes the questions are really fucking hard to answer.

“Are you and Mr. Connor gonna talk about me?”

Hank wants to close his eyes, but he’s driving, so he opts to sigh instead. The audible version of closing your eyes, he supposes. “Yeah, we are.”

“What are you gonna to say?”

“It’s more like, what’s _he_ gonna say. He’s going to tell me how you’re doing at school.”

“But I tell you about school a lot.”

“Sometimes… grown-ups have to talk to grown-ups about kids. Just to be sure.” Hank reaches into the backseat, offering Cole his palm.

“High-five,” says Cole, and slaps Hank’s fingers. Close enough.

“You keep telling me about school, okay, buddy? I wanna hear it from you, not just Mr. Connor.”

“Okay.”

Hank glances at his son in the rearview mirror. “Do you like having Mr. Connor as your teacher?” Cole nods. “Who do you like better, him or Ms. Atler?”

Cole puts his ‘thinking face’ on, which means he wrinkles his nose and frowns and taps his chin. He says he does this because it’s what it looks like when Daddy ‘thinks very hard.’ Hank is unsure where Cole got this from. “It depends on what Mr. Connor says about me today,” Cole announces, getting a boisterious laugh from Hank.

Cole takes Hank’s hand as they walk from the parking lot into the school. The hand thing still hits Hank pretty hard, because he’s new to it—Cole liked to hold his mother’s hand when the three of them would cross the street. Now he reaches for Hank because he has to.

“School is scary at night,” says Cole, peeking around at the empty, dark classrooms.

“Show me to your classroom, Cole.”

Cole does, and the door is sitting open. Hank pokes his head inside, much like Connor poked his head into Hank’s car this morning, the fucking toothpick. It’s not as hot in here as it was a couple of weeks ago at parent orientation.

“Lieutenant Anderson.” There he is, looking chiseled-from-marble as usual. He dresses like a J. Crew mannequin on its way to a wake: a white collared shirt under a navy sweater and a tie of the same color, black corduroy slacks without a speck of chalk or glitter or glue. His hair is perfect aside from a single flyaway hair, which he attempts to tuck back as he greets Hank and Cole. He has this strange complexion, pale almost to the point of glowing, but with the faintest of freckles across his nose and several prominent, dark moles on his face and neck. He’s got flaws in his perfect exterior—or, well, not _flaws_ , but inconsistencies. Things they’d airbrush off an actor or a model, and that’s fine, because it doesn’t feel right to say Connor is hot or even attractive—he’s compelling, instead. A little magnetic. He makes you want to look at him.

“I said, should we show Cole to the lounge?”

Both Connor and Cole are looking at him like Hank just zoned out for an inappropriate amount of time, which he probably did, though he’s uncomfortable with the thought that it happened because he was oggling his son’s considerably younger teacher. That’s not _great_.

Hank says, stupidly, like a big stupid old man, “Yup.”

“Good. It’s right across the hall. Come with me, Cole.”

They get Cole settled on the couch in the lounge with Hank’s iPad and a pair of headphones. The kid starts playing a game immediately and ignores the kiss Hank plants on his head to say goodbye.

“Back in twenty, kiddo,” Hank mutters.

He follows Connor back across the hall to the classroom, keeping his eyes on the back of Connor’s head with laser-like focus, lest he fall to temptation and check out Connor’s ass.

“Have a seat, Lieutenant Anderson.”

“I’m starting to hate hearing you call me that.”

Connor settles into his desk chair, blinking rapidly. “You requested that I call you that.”

“Yeah, turns out I’m an idiot. Hank is fine.”

Connor says nothing, which has to be tacit agreement, or at least an unwillingness to argue about it, which is good enough. Hank takes the seat across from him as instructed.

Being back in a classroom makes him nervous, he realizes. School wasn’t his thing. He wonders if Connor can tell. The guy’s had his fucking number from day one. Wouldn’t be surprising.

Then again, if Connor picks up on that, who’s to say he didn’t pick up on Hank’s, uh, appreciation of him? _No wonder he hates me_ , Hank grumbles inwardly, hating that this situation is funnier than it feels.

“Lieutenant,” Connor begins. He doesn’t seem to mind the face Hank pulls in response. “I was hoping we could discuss Cole’s transition into a new school. The circumstances around the move, how he’s feeling about it. If you’ve noticed any changes in his behavior.”

Hank leans forward, elbows on his knees, letting his clasped hands dangle. “He’s… I don’t know, I think he’s been okay with it.”

“You think,” Connor repeats, in that irritatingly even way of his.

“Yeah, I do. You got something to tell me that’s going to change my mind?”

“We have a daily question.” Connor reaches into a drawer and pulls out a folder. “I have the students write their answers to a question I put on the board, and I collect them to review. It helps me assess their progress in writing and self-reporting, among other things.”

“You really don’t talk like a second-grade teacher, you know,” Hank says, giving him a squint.

Connor is unphased by the feedback. “Were you wanting me to talk to you like a child?”

Never mind that Hank’s honest answer is, _yeah, kind of_ —he simply grunts.

Connor continues, “Today’s question was, ‘What is your favorite place to go?’ This was Cole’s response.” He hands Hank a paper across the desk.

Hank knows Cole’s handwriting on sight from helping him with his homework. It only takes him a moment to decipher what Cole has written, backwards letters and all: _our old house._

Hank shoves the paper back across Connor’s desk. He doesn’t want to look at it anymore.

“Sometimes parents can have an optimistic point of view about their child’s feelings around a major change,” says Connor, tucking Cole’s assignment back into his folder. “I think part of my job is to give them the complete picture.”

“Yeah. Sure. It ain’t your fault.”

Connor glances down and shrugs slightly. It’s enough to distract Hank from the crap running through his head right now. He doesn’t know what Connor wants to hear, really, but he sure is looking at Hank like it’s _something_. He wants to hear something. Hank struggles to string together a sentence in light of what Connor’s just told him, and in light of everything that came before it, since this is just the latest in a long line of shitty, shitty dominos.

“He misses that house because it’s where he lived with his mom. The three of us lived there together. She’s passed, now, so I guess he’s just never gonna like the new house.” And that’s all he’s going to tell Connor about that, Hank decides.

“How long since Cole’s mother passed away?” Connor asks. He’s started writing something down, but he still makes eye contact with Hank. Weirdo.

“A year and a half.”

“But you only moved recently.”

“Yeah. Finally realized I was sick of sleeping in same room where I slept with my dead wife, so.”

Connor’s hand pauses over his notes. So much for not sharing more—at least Hank kept the drinking under wraps. He hasn’t had anything in weeks, anyway. It’s barely a problem.

After a period of silence, Connor finishes jotting down whatever it is. “Lieutenant, what do you for a living?”

Oh, good. This old chestnut. “I’m a homicide detective.”

Hank has gotten used to the range of reactions when he tells people his job. Excitement, horror, discomfort. Lots of people don’t like cops. Hank, who knows a lot of cops, can’t fucking blame them.

He’s not used to _no_ reaction. Which is what he gets from Connor. Amazing how this weird-ass twink with a superiority complex keeps finding new ways to get the better of him.

“So Cole is very familiar with the concept of death,” says Connor.

“Well, I mean, yeah, if you wanna fucking put it that way, sure.”

“It’s a good thing for me to know.”

That’s true, and Connor is right, and maybe Hank should feel as dickish as he feels forgetting that most six year olds don’t know about murder, and funerals, and cancer. Cole’s the only kid Hank has ever had—he has trouble thinking of him as abnormal in any way. That’s just _his kid_. It’s not like he keeps crime scene photos on the kitchen table or anything. “Yeah,” Hank sighs. “Sure. It’s a thing to know.”

“He’s a smart boy. I don’t anticipate him struggling academically, but I’ll be sending home monthly general report cards in addition to the official reports each semester. That’s something I like to do.”

“All right. Glad he’s getting along good.” This Connor guy does more than his job asks of him. Hank wants to smack him and pat him on the back in the same gesture, because he knows that pattern well. He’s lived it.

“Cole is turning seven in a couple of weeks.” Connor sets down his pen, done with his scribbling, at least for now. “Did you have anything special planned for his birthday?” He gives Hank a smile—a different smile than the one that fucked Hank up the last time, but equally affecting. It’s noticeable when Connor smiles, Hank realizes, because he doesn’t do it very often. Connor’s got a default expression of wilted interest and a fake-polite smile he does to seem approachable, but genuine smiles are rare. Another trait Hank doesn’t associate with elementary school teachers.

“I’m bringing home a puppy.”

“A dog. That’s a big responsibility.”

“It’s as much for me as it is for him.”

Connor nods and looks away. Hank leans back, gaze floating toward the ceiling. Is this how these conferences are supposed to go? He’s only done the one before this, and he was still so fucked over by grief he can barely remember it.

“What kind?” says Connor’s voice, weirdly quiet, almost—timid.

Hank’s eyes snap to his face, the perfectly imperfect one. “What kind what?” Connor doesn’t look up from his desk, where he’s playing with a quarter, passing it from knuckle to knuckle.

“The puppy. What kind of dog is it?”

“Saint Bernard.”

Finally, bizarrely, Connor reacts: his eyebrows shoot up. “A very big dog.”

“I had one in my younger days. Got a soft spot for them.”

“Oh,” says Connor, in that same weird, quiet voice. He smiles again.

It’s—frustrating. There’s nothing Hank can do but be mad about it. He sighs, louder than is subtle, and slaps his thighs. “You got anything else you need to tell me? Anything else you want to hear? ‘Cause Cole’s waiting, and I have work tomorrow—”

“Of course.” Connor springs to his feet, which gives Hank license to do the same. He imagines this is what his perps feel like when or if they learn they’re getting out of prison.

Then Connor doesn’t move out from behind the desk, effectively shutting down the natural progress of Hank moving toward the door, and Connor following, and the two of them going to get Cole, and Hank getting the hell out of here. No, Connor seems—frozen.

He starts reaching across the desk, and Hank thinks, _what the hell_ , until he recognizes the gesture: Connor wants to shake his hand. The way he offers it makes Hank feel like he might be a fucking space alien, but yeah, Connor is definitely trying to shake his hand. _Nothing weird about this, huh_ , Hank tells himself, as he links his hand with Connor’s and shakes. The expression on Connor’s face is one of extreme focus; the whirring of his gears is practicaly audible. _Super fuckin’ normal_ , Hank insists.

Once the hubbub of the handshake (and what the fuck was that, really?) dies down, Connor comes out from behind the desk and Hank makes for the door, moving fast.

“We have some opportunities for chaperoning on school trips, if you ever happen to have a weekday off, Lieutenant.”

“Huh. Maybe.” Somehow, during their conference, Hank went from Connor’s shit list to his list of viable chaperones. The only explanation is pity, and that makes Hank—grumpy. Grumpy enough to say what he’s thinking. “If you got that memory thing, why’d you write down everything I told you about Cole? You don’t just remember it?”

Connor stops just short of the doorway, leaving Hank in the hall with Connor still in the classroom. “I always make notes of the things my students’ parents tell me.”

Hank almost laughs. “So it’s for me, not for you.”

“I believe in having a back-up plan,” says Connor. He taps his temple. “A second copy of what’s up here. Just in case.”

“Yeah, I got the sense that you’re the thorough type.” Connor’s face does something Hank hasn’t seen it do before, going bloodless and blank. Not the most readable of expressions, but he figures he ought to save face, anyway: “It’s kinda my job to notice shit about people. Don’t sweat it.”

“I won’t… sweat it.”

“Good man. And sorry I keep swearing in your house of learning, or whatever.”

Connor smiles, again. Maybe it’s not as rare as Hank thought. “Don’t sweat it, Lieutenant.”

 

 

 

 

Cole falls asleep as soon as he’s in the car, meaning Hank is alone with his thoughts for the duration of the ride home.

This turns out to be… unfortunate. He has a lot of thoughts. Too many thoughts.

He’s surprised, in a way. He’d assumed he might come out of his conference with the freaky hot twink teacher and feel embarrassed—about his behavior, about his looks, about the excruciatingly specific pornography he’d have to dig up later that night. And there’s some of that, sure. But it lingers under a noisier thought, which is that he likes talking to the freaky hot twink teacher, and he wants to do it some more. Is it bad to hope your kid starts fucking up more so you can earn face time with their teacher? That seems bad.

Hank glances at the reflection of a sleeping Cole in the rearview. He’d never wish anything bad for Cole, of course, not as anything more than a self-deprecating joke. He’s going to do great at this school, in spite of everything, because he’s the best kid on the planet. Hank’s just a little jealous that he gets to spend his days with Connor, making shit out of construction paper and learning basic literacy.

It’ll be good for Hank to have some distance, anyway. An unrealistic crush is exactly the sort of torture his brain would come up with to distract him from the painful reality of his life. Thinking about it as a distraction helps him to brush it off and stow it in a corner of his brain where he won’t have to think about it again while he’s sober. There’s a reason he quit drinking.

 

 

 

 

Connor is just getting comfortable in bed—a book on his lap, his tea cooling on the side table, a comfortable amount of time to relax before he absolutely needs to be asleep in order to get his seven hours—when there’s a knock at the door of his room, and Markus enters.

He holds up his phone. “A drunk guy called me. He’s asking for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the power went out right after i wrote the line about cole being familiar with the concept of death so i think david cage is haunting me or whatever. hope he knows i don't give a fuck


	2. the message

Connor doesn't excel at social etiquette, but he's certain there's something _not quite right_  about the scenario Markus has presented. 

“Just… a random drunk person?”

Markus sighs. “Based on the number, he’s the same guy who called me a few weeks ago about babysitting.”

Hmm. So that would mean… “It’s a parent?”

“He did ask for ‘Mr. Connor.’ Does this happen to you often?”

“Never.” Markus steps into the room enough to offer him the cellphone, and Connor takes it reluctantly, setting his book aside.

“Can you bring it back when you’re done?” Markus asks. “And if you could have him delete my number, too, that would be appreciated.”

Connor nods. Even after Markus has left him alone, he hesitates to bring the phone to his ear. He ends up tapping the speaker phone button instead, as though that were the safer option. “Hello?”

The person on the other end of the line shouts over a blanket of background noise—voices talking, faint music, plates and silverware clinking. “Hey! Hey, is this Connor? Are you Connor?” He recognizes Hank Anderson’s roughened voice. He slurs his words. “I wanted to talk to Connor.”

“This is Connor.”

“HA!” Connor leans away from the phone, scowling. “Connor,” says Lieutenant Anderson. “I got a question! I got a question I need to ask you.”

“Lieutenant Anderson, have you been drinking?” Connor asks. He feels foolish right away, not only because the answer is obvious, but because the Lieutenant laughs wildly.

“I have had a few, yes! I have had a few. But I got a question, Connor. You gonna answer my question?”

“Lieutenant Anderson, I’m sorry, but this is inappropriate—”

“MY QUESTION,” Hank shouts. He breaks down laughing.

Connor presses the butt of his hand to his forehead. “What’s the question?”

“Is—” Lieutenant Anderson stops and giggles. Connor’s stomach has begun to hurt, for some reason. “Is Connor your first name or your last name?”

Connor wasn’t expecting any of this, so it’s hard to say that this was the last question he expected, because he didn’t expect any question at all. But if you’d posed the situation to him a day ago and let him ruminate on the possibilities, he wouldn’t have predicted this. “My first name,” he says. “The students have trouble pronouncing my last name, and I prefer to go by Connor anyway.”

“Connor,” Lieutenant Anderson slurs.

“Yes…?”

“Connor. Con _nor_.” Connor’s face feels hot. “More I say it, the more it sounds like a fake name. What kinda word is _Connor_? Could be a fake, made-up name… You’re a made-up kinda guy, you know.”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that, Lieutenant.”

“ _Hank_ , I told you to call me Hank.”

“That—it’s not appropriate for you to call me at home.”

“I wanna hear you say it.” The Lieutenant’s voice is haggard. He’s slipping. Connor’s face is burning—the blush spreads down his neck. “Call me _Hank_. Just do it. Please.”

Connor swallows hard, eyes glued to the foot of his bed, unable to move, though running is an inviting prospect. His thumb hangs over the red button that will end the call. “Hank.” Hank makes—a noise. That is the only word Connor can think of to describe it. Not a moan or a groan or a sigh, not a laugh, but all of those things at once, too. Connor has never heard a noise like that. His tongue is numb in his mouth. He struggles to speak. “You can’t call me at home.”

“So where can I call you?”

“At school. When you need to talk about Cole.”

Hank snorts. “You woulda hung up on me already if you didn’t like me calling you.”

The phone slips out of Connor’s hand. He catches it just before it hits the floor.

“Hey,” says Hank, slowly, grinning audibly. “I bet I could show you some other stuff you’d like.”

Connor slams the end call button.

He sits in silence for a long time, trying to will the blush from his face and neck. It doesn’t work.

He finally manages to return the phone to Markus, who’s in his studio, surrounded by sketches. “Thanks,” says Markus. Then he gets a look at Connor. “You’re red. Was it that bad?”

“I’m fine,” says Connor. He thinks he’s fine. He’s probably fine. “It went… I’m not sure.”

“What did he want?”

“He asked about my last name. And…” He doesn’t want to say it. The words make his mouth feel numb. “I think he came on to me.”

Markus raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Connor puts his hand on the back of his neck, hoping to relieve some of the heat, but his palms are warm too. “It was uncomfortable. I’ve never had a parent hit on me before.”

“He called specifically to hit on you, too,” Markus muses. “At first he just wanted your number, and I must have mentioned we’re roommates… I guess some people don’t have any understanding of boundaries.”

Boundaries. Markus says _boundaries_ like that explains the problem of what happened, but Connor—he isn’t sure. Yes, Hank’s behavior violated a boundary, that much is obvious, only Connor has this terrible feeling in his stomach that there must be more to it than that. This might be the first time a parent has flirted with him, but it’s not the first time he’s had a boundary crossed. It’s never felt like this, never made him quite so warm.

“So,” says Markus, picking up a sketch. “What are you going to do?”

Connor answers honestly, “I don’t know.” He has options. There are people he can talk to in the school’s adminstration. Complaints can be filed. He could confront Hank himself and lay down the law. But none of those possibilities stick out to him right now as the most correct. He’s having trouble thinking—he keeps hearing _show you_ _some other stuff you’d like_ in Hank’s low, wild voice, stuck in his head like a song.

“I’ll figure it out,” he tells Markus. “I’m going to bed.”

 

 

 

 

 

Hank drops Cole off at the airport for a long weekend in Florida with Grandma. It never occurs to him that he hasn’t spent a weekend without Cole since—in over a year. It never occurs to him what it’s going to be like, coming home from a long day working a brutal double murder, and having to sleep in an empty house.

So Hank goes to a bar where he knows a few of the regulars. At first he thinks he’s not going to drink, because he hasn’t been drinking, because he’s been taking care of Cole. Now he’s not taking care of Cole, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to handle the quiet if he’s sober.

It’s one beer at first, and then a second, because there’s no harm in being tipsy, yeah? By the fifth one he’s pretty far gone, since he hasn’t had a drop in months, and that makes it easier to order six and seven.

He socializes as much as is necessary to keep drinking. One of the regulars is a banker or some obnoxious shit. Too rich to be hanging out in a dive like this, but too obnoxious to get in anywhere else. He starts going off about his nanny, how his nanny is super hot, and he wants to fuck the nanny because he hates his wife (or whatever). “You ever fuck the nanny or the maid or something?” he says to another regular, while Hank sits there judging them in silence.

“What about the babysitter?” the other regular laughs.

“Yeah, that shit… that’s the good shit.”

Hank’s stomach drops. He tips forward, bowing over his beer, because he just _remembers_ Connor. Remembers that Connor exists. Hank is one of these dudes, these lonely drunk perverts, these men who’d rather sit here and drink and talk about fucking the help than spend an evening at home with their families. That’s what he is, and he can’t fight what he is, can he?

 _The good shit_. Hank wants the good shit, too. His head starts swimming. He gets out his phone. Fuck.

That conversation about the nanny ends up being his last clear memory of the night. When he wakes up the next morning, he has to let the evening come back to him in waves. And still, he doesn’t know if his car is still at the bar, or who ordered him a cab home.

He remembers the phone, he called someone. He finds his phone on the nightstand, thank god, and checks his recent calls. At 11:38 PM, he called a contact named NOT A FUCKIN BABYSITTER I GUESS. That’s enough to trigger the memory of what he did. Of what he _said_.

 

 

 

 

Connor thinks about what to do. He thinks about what to do on Saturday, and again on Sunday, and on Monday, when there’s no school.

Tuesday arrives and he’s still thinking about what to do. His process falls to the wayside while he teaches, and that’s nice. He likes being free of it for a while. He considers that this might make returning to the problem easier, if he can clear his head.

With the school day over, he leads his class out to the front of the school and stands just outside the front doors, watching the kids pile into buses and cars. Seeing his students come and go always leaves him feeling zen; it reminds him that there is a world outside of the school, and everything he does only matters, ultimately, if it serves those kids years from now when they don’t remember his name.

“Mr. Connor!”

Connor starts slightly, which is as much as he ever starts. He can’t quite process what’s happening right now. It would seem like Hank Anderson is standing in front of him, but that’s a horrific possibility, and Connor would really rather not contend with a horrific possibility.

“I was wondering if I could grab you for a sec—I mean, if we could talk in private. You know.”

Hank doesn’t vanish when Connor doesn’t respond right away, which suggests he isn’t a mirage. Disappointing. “Where’s Cole?” he manages, avoiding Hank’s eyes. The concrete walkway is not as compelling, but it doesn’t frighten him, either.

“He’s in the car—I left the AC on and he’s got the iPad and everything—it’ll only take a second. Please.”

A memory of the last time Hank said _please_ to him flashes through Connor’s head, and he has atypical moment where he regrets his ability to vividly recall the past. He wouldn’t mind if this particular memory were a little less clear to him. “All right. Let’s talk in my classroom.”

Connor turns on his heel and heads inside, his pace just short of a jog, not making any concessions for the person following him. He had hoped for more time. He was going to make a decision. Now he doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

Connor stops as soon as he gets into the classroom rather than heading to his desk; he doesn’t want Hank to get the idea that he’s looking for a long conversation. Hank follows him inside and shuts the door. Connor doesn’t get nervous sweats, ever, but he suddenly has a better understanding of why some people do.

They stand for a second, looking at each other. Connor slips up and meets Hank’s gaze, and once their eyes are locked he can’t figure out how to pull himself away. His neck is starting to feel warm again.

“Listen.” Hank clears his throat and looks away, to Connor’s relief. “Cole was with my mother. I got lonely and I got drunk. I didn’t even realize what I did until the next morning.”

Connor doesn’t know how to respond. He stands stock still, his hands clasped behind his back so tightly that the skin on his knuckles aches.

“I’m sorry,” Hank sighs, a big, billowing release. “I’m sorry for being a—Jesus, I don’t know. You probably think I’m some old drunk pervert, and… you’re probably fucking right, hey. But I want you to know it’s over, it’s done. And I am done drinking, _permanently_.”

“I think that would be for the best,” Connor says. That’s the part of what Hank said he can make sense of. The thing about being an old drunk pervert, he struggles with that.

“So I just wanted to apologize,” says Hank, raising his hands. “That’s why I dragged you in here. To say I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make things awkward. I know I did, but I didn’t mean to.”

Connor forces himself to smile. It’s not a good fake, and Hank likely sees through it.

“You can complain to your boss if that’s what you wanna do. It’s your right.”

“I know.”

“Or we can just agree to never talk about it again. I’m good with that too.”

It’s feels like they’re having two separate conversations at once. Hank keeps saying the things he wants to say and needs to say, and Connor doesn’t know how to respond, because once again he’s missing a piece of the puzzle, once again they are not quite on the same wavelength. He can try to express what he’s thinking—what he’s _feeling_ , really, because he has no problem articulating logical thoughts—but it might seem like off-topic gibberish to Hank.

He’s still going to try, though. It’s worth a try.

“Hank.” The use of his first name earns Hank’s rapt attention. “It’s not appropriate for teachers to have intimate relationships with the family members of their students.”

Hank waits, expecting Connor to say something more, and frowning when he doesn’t. “That… I mean, I know that? Isn’t it in the handbook somewhere? Feels like everybody knows that.”

“It’s not appropriate,” Connor says again, a little more desperate. “What you said to me was not acceptable.”

“I—I know, I apologized? It was a shit thing to say. All of it.”

Hank doesn’t understand. Connor’s lips are parted, his voice almost pleading. “Hank. It is not okay for us to have a relationship.”

“Yeah, okay, I got it.” Hank takes a step back, his hand on the doorknob. “Let’s never talk about it again, okay? From now on it’s all shadow puppets and spelling tests and shit.”

Connor, feeling hollow, feeling impotent, can only bring himself to nod.

“Great. So we’re all clear on that,” Hank grunts, throwing open the classroom door. “I’ll see you at the next bake sale or whatever.”

 

 

 

 

 

This isn’t the first time Connor’s difficulty expressing himself has hurt him. It’s not the second or the third or the fourth. But the pain is fresh everytime, as is the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that tends to accompany it. Connor is small, he is isolated, he lies in bed and stares at the ceiling and thinks about how he wishes his problems came with neat solutions, like crossword puzzles do. He’d solve them in a few hours on a Saturday, with a pencil and a cup of tea.

He sleeps fitfully that night, and wakes early for a run. Connor isn’t someone who enjoys running, but he wishes he did, and he does it anyway because he feels like he should. And he does like the atmosphere of a small Midwestern suburb just before the sun comes up, the quiet only punctuated by the sound of his shoes on the pavement and the occasional passing car.

He takes the same route almost every time, except for when there’s construction, or somewhere he wants to go. Today is one of those days, he realizes, when his feet turn down a street he usually passes by.

His memory is an unfortunate side effect of who he is. There are moments where he’s glad for it, of course, but few people would want to remember everything that’s ever happened to them, because few people live their lives without moments they’d rather forget. Things stick in Connor’s brain that he would prefer to scrub out, and his subconscious refuses to bury them, so he’s left with vivid recollection of every difficult scene in his life.

There are scraps of information, too—not facts but personal knowledge, like the combination of his high school locker, and the addresses listed on his students’ permanent records. He often recognizes the street names right away—it’s not a big town—and that only makes the numbers harder to shake.

This is the confluence of events that ends with him standing in front of the Anderson house on his morning jog. His feet slow when he realizes what he’s done, until he stops short. There’s no blue SUV out front, but there’s a garage where it might be stored. The windows are still dark.

Connor’s breathing is rapid and shallow in his ears. There is a feeling he wants to shake off as he stands looking at Hank’s home, knowing he and Cole are sleeping peacefully somewhere inside, knowing he will see at least one of them later today. He wonders if what he’s doing is strange—no, he’s sure it’s strange, but is it too strange? Should he feel guilty? Has he taken advantage of the situation, in some way?

But ultimately he’s just on a jog, and it’s just a house, and perhaps he misremembered the address and Cole and Hank aren’t even in there, though that’s highly unlikely.

Connor wipes a thin film of sweat from his brow and pushes the hair out of his face. He picks up his feet, picks up his pace, picks up the rest of his usual route.

When you can’t have what you want, the smartest thing to do is search for an acceptable alternative. Connor has a few ideas; they’ll have to do, for now.

 

 

 

 

Hank knows he was younger the last time he potty trained a puppy, but he feels the difference acutely whenever the cardboard box in the corner of his room starts whimpering after he’s already gotten into bed. Or worse, when he’s asleep. It’s starting to get cold and the dog loves shitting at four o’clock in the morning.

At least he hadn’t passed out yet, but still, Hank’s tired. “All right, all right,” he says to the whimpering box, knowing full well Sumo’s not going to understand his platitudes. He’d been scrolling through his phone and he takes it in one hand while he scoops the puppy up with the other. “Don’t pee on my hand.”

Sumo holds it until they’re in the yard, thank god. He does his business and then toddles off toward some bushes to explore.

“I could be out here all night, huh?” Hank says to no one in particular. He returns to his phone, where he’d been—browsing.

He’s coming up on the end of his first week with this stupid app, and so far he’s had a handful of half-hearted conversations via instant message and gotten one unsolicited dick pic.

He would’ve quit already if he didn’t like looking at the profiles. Pictures of men with names and ages. It gets him going, not sexually—well, not entirely sexually—because it’s fun to imagine these men as real living beings with whom he could have a relationship. He only half understands how these dating programs work, but he knows that if a man shows up in his queue, it means he fits what they’re looking for. Hank also knows there’s a lot of variation in his particular category and that nobody ticks a box for a recovering alcoholic widower with a kid, but there’s no harm in imagining.

Hank swipes right based on the first picture he sees. He does a lot of swiping right, being a dirty old geezer and shit, and sometimes a message pops up indicating he’s made a match. Indicating one of these guys looked at the selfie of Hank glaring into his phone’s crappy front camera and thought, _Yes, I want some of THAT._ He waits to get messaged first in case there’s been a mistake.

As he’s huddling against the cold, he squints at a profile picture—brunette, early thirties, hot—and swipes right without more than a glance.

_You liked Connor! Message them now._

A weird coincidence, he tells himself, but it’s enough of a weird coincidence that he thinks he should check the profile of this Connor guy, just in case—

“Holy shit.”

Holy shit? Holy shit.

If Hank had spent two more seconds looking at that first picture, he would’ve recognized the weird, goofy face. In the photo Connor is wearing a t-shirt and glasses and smiling a little, so Hank didn’t think—glasses, he’s never seen Connor with glasses, how the fuck was he supposed to tell?

His heart is pounding. Hank swiped right on Connor, meaning the probability of Connor seeing his stupid shit profile just went up. His stupid shit profile that says, _I’m a cop so I’m not rich enough to be your sugar daddy_ , and nothing else.

He scrolls through the rest of Connor’s profile. There are more pictures, which sucks. Connor photographs well, go figure. Hank’s fingers itch—he ends up letting himself save a couple of the pictures to his phone, swearing to himself he won’t do anything weird with them, that they’re just nice pictures and he might not be an art conneisseur but he can appreciate a good picture, you know?

The text of the profile reads the way Connor talks, not exactly colorful. He says he’s an elementary school teacher and that he likes puzzles. At the bottom of the profile, he’s listed as _interested in men, between the ages of 45 and 65, for hookups and long and short term dating._

“Holy shit,” says Hank again, quieter. There’s a fuckton to unpack in that sentence. “Sumo! Sumo, come on, we’re going inside.”

Back in bed, Hank flips through Connor’s six pictures over and over again while he tries to process the evidence. He had a pretty good intuition that Connor was into dudes, that’s not always hard to pick up on, but here’s confirmation. More important—important? Shocking? _Thrilling_? Hank doesn’t fucking know—is _between_ _the ages of 45 and 65_. Connor’s age is listed as 31. So he’s basically saying, if you aren’t fifteen years older than me, I'm not interested. Hank’s inadvisably younger crush _likes to fuck older dudes._

Hank’s sitting right smack dab in the middle of that age range. Connor’s probably noticed, right? That Hank’s an older dude.

He’s never considered, while also sober, that Connor might be interested in him. The only guy he’s hooked up with in the last year had men like Hank as a special interest, and he didn’t look like Connor. No one looks like Connor.

Hank drops his head back and glares at the ceiling fan. He’s known he wasn’t straight for thirty years, but aside from a couple of drunken adventures, he’s only started exploring relationships with men since Cole’s mother died. At first it was just because he needed someone and he couldn’t wrap his head around the thought of being with a woman other than her.

Then he started watching a shitload of gay porn and realized how deeply he’d missed out on this part of himself. He still feels half a virgin, in some ways. Everything is new. He doesn’t know what to expect. He doesn’t know if any of this is normal.

And he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do about the fact that he swiped right on Connor. The pictures, Connor’s type, all of it falls away when he remembers that he’s already had to apologize to Connor for inappropriate behavior once. If he does nothing, Connor could stumble across his profile and see that he’d liked Connor’s, and he wouldn’t know that it was an accident. He could be creeped out. He could be upset.

The alternative is to tell Connor what happened and apologize, but that means confessing. In the other scenario, there’s the possibility that this all goes away because Connor doesn’t use the app anymore, or he swipes left on Hank without noticing who he is. Or, hell, he can notice all he wants if he never says anything about it.

It’s an all around crappy situation, and he’s not helped by knowing he wouldn’t be in it if he weren’t old and horny and not paying attention.

He slides further under the covers, deject. Sumo’s box starts whimpering again.

 

 

 

 

Markus goes out with his friends that evening and they try to get Connor to come along. It’s a Friday night, so there’s no school in the morning to worry about, and they say he doesn’t have any fun. “It’d be good for you,” Markus tells him, and perhaps he’s right. Perhaps Connor doesn’t have any fun.

But he also knows that he won’t find that fun at a club with Markus and Simon and North, that he’ll be quite miserable with the noise and everyone getting all—sloppy. He doesn’t like public slopiness, it makes him uncomfortable. “Maybe another time,” he says, and waves to them on their way out.

Once he’s alone, he pours himself a glass of red wine. This is _fun_ of him. See, he knows how to make compromises. He is doing just fine, he tells himself, settling onto the sofa with his book and his wine.

He reads, and he has another glass of wine, and he reads more. He doesn’t notice midnight come and go—it’s a good book.

A strange noise fills the silent living room. Connor can’t place it at first, drawn from reading suddenly, tired and a bit tipsy. He finally realizes that his phone buzzed against the kitchen countertop.

The notification is from—one of those apps he got a few months back. Even seeing the icon makes his heart flutter. The text beneath it reads, _Hank liked & messaged you_.

An unfortunate coincidence, that name. Connor promises himself he won’t let it interfere with his opinion of this man, who’s gone out of his way to reach out to Connor first, without even knowing that they’re a match. He likes that confidence; it’s comforting.

He opens the notification to read the message, and… and struggles with what he sees, quite honestly.

Firstly, the profile picture beside the name looks a lot like Hank Anderson. In fact, it _is_ Hank Anderson.

(12:14 AM) _Hey, so I accidentally liked you on this stupid fucking shitty app and I wanted to make sure you knew it was an accident. I didn’t realize it was you because of the glasses._

Connor’s hand makes his phone tremble slightly. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, exhales. He always wears contacts for work.

An ellipsis indicates Hank is still typing.

(12:15 AM) _I didn’t want to make shit weirder so I’m coming clean about it_

(12:15 AM) _You don’t even need to reply to this_

(12:16 AM) _I’m hoping we can just forget about it_

(12:16 AM) _Also_

(12:16 AM) _I’m fucking SORRY I keep doing this_

Connor looks around the apartment, wanting help, finding no one. He taps on Hank’s profile and scans it, just to be sure. There are only two pictures—the main one, which is grainy, and a second where Connor can see that Cole has been cropped out. So these messages are from Hank.

He switches back to the message window. Hank has stopped typing, apparently, but a green circle by his name indicates he’s still in the app. Connor swallows hard. The wine is a short reach away; he grabs it and refills his glass, then returns to the couch with it and his phone.

(12:18 AM) It’s okay

Connor goes through his profile and tries to see it with fresh eyes, like Hank might. One of them is a shirtless mirror picture, which North convinced him he absolutely had to have in his arsenal, for some reason—and she’d made a joke about a parent finding his profile, too. “At least it means you’re both trolling for it,” Simon had laughed. Connor’s stomach flips horribly. He recalls the ages mentioned at the bottom of his profile, and sucks in a deep breath.

(12:19 AM) _IS it okay?_

(12:19 AM) Yes.

(12:19 AM) _If you say so…_

(12:19 AM) _I won’t tell if you don’t_

Connor feels the blush starting up on his neck. He takes a long sip of wine.

(12:20 AM) Okay. I agree

(12:20 AM) _Thanks_

(12:21 AM) _Is it just me or is this pretty damn funny_

Connor smiles at his phone. He’s not sure he’s ever smiled at his phone before, but this is a unique moment.

(12:21 AM) It’s pretty funny. You’re right.

Connor sits staring at the message window, waiting for another, but Hank isn’t typing. He distracts himself by checking his email and drinking more wine. Minutes pass until he gets another notification.

(12:26 AM) _Thanks for the validation_

(12:26 AM) _It’s probably illegal for us to talk too huh_

Connor answers this one quickly.

(12:26 AM) No

(12:26 AM) We can talk

(12:27 AM) _Ha_

(12:27 AM) _So do I get to ask you about your interests on here_

(12:27 AM) _cause wow_

Connor buries his face in the crook of his arm. At least Hank can’t see him, can’t see the color he’s turned.

(12:28 AM) Please don’t tell anyone.

(12:28 AM) _Of course not_

(12:28 AM) _Christ, kid_

(12:28 AM) _I’m not gonna out you_

(12:29 AM) Thank you

(12:29 AM) _Not something you gotta thank me for_

He stares at this response for a long time, turning it over in his head. He exits the message and navigates to Hank’s profile again, where he taps the empty heart beside the name.

 _It’s a match! You and Hank liked each other_.

When he returns to the message window, Hank’s green dot has vanished—he’s gone offline. The last thing in their conversation is the notification that they’re a match.

His hands still shaking, Connor sets his phone on the coffee table and looks for a coin to play with. He finds one and guides it from knuckle to knuckle, picking up his book in the other end, waiting for a sound from the phone. By the time he notices he’s been on the same page for an hour, he is already dozing off, and he falls asleep on the sofa beside his half-empty glass of wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> connor detroit ruined my life


	3. sting ray

_It’s a match! You and Connor liked each other._

Hank closes out of the app and puts his phone away. It strikes him like the easiest thing to do, considering.

Stupid fucking kid. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He can’t know, otherwise—otherwise he’d have some pity on a poor lonely old man.

Hank falls asleep that night with Connor in the front of his mind, and his dreams are what you would expect. It’s kind of funny waking up from that. Like he’s a teenager again.

The next morning, while he drinks his coffee and Cole watches a cartoon about bears, he considers that his prerogative to control himself has just increased. You’d think that learning Connor—returns his interest—you’d think that would help, but it’s the opposite. He is as miserable as he’s ever been, knowing that if they’d met in a gay bar instead of an elementary school they would’ve already gotten up to some genuinely disgusting stuff.

Makes sense that Hank would need to be the adult, here, what with him having twenty years on Connor. But it’s not a great indicator, considering Hank’s track record.

Then again, it’s already October. November, December, January, February, March, April, May, and school’s out in June. That’s seven months and change. Any adult worth their salt could wait that long, right?

He drives Cole to school a couple of days later and spies Connor talking to another teacher at the dropoff. He stares, because the six pictures he got off of that hook-up app have barely tided him over, and then the car behind him starts honking, screaming at him to stop oggling and drive already.

There’s no one Hank can talk to about this. He saw a therapist for a few months after the funeral, but he’d felt done with it after a while, and he doesn’t think she’d want to hear about his incredible boner for his kid’s teacher, anyway. The guys at the station are his only “friends” in town. He doesn’t know what Gavin gets up to in his private time and he doesn’t want to, because he’s already strung out having to know about the guy’s professional habits, and if Hank opens the door to them talking about their personal lives there’s no telling where it’ll stop.

The only person who he can trust with this information, and who might be sympathetic toward it—is the only other person going through it.

Three days after his and Connor’s last chat via the hook-up app, he sends another message.

(7:49 PM) you sure it’s okay for us to talk?

Despite the delay between this and their last conversation, Connor answers quickly.

(7:55 PM) _Yes._

He doesn’t elaborate, which gives Hank the impression he might be lying, but he can’t blame the guy. They’re both just trying to survive this.

(7:56 PM) How about we not do it in the app, then

(7:57 PM) _Okay_.

Connor’s next message is a phone number. The sight of it makes Hank feel—he doesn’t even know if it has a name, but it’s the feeling he remembers feeling on a playground, the first time a girl said she had a crush on him. It’s a specific lightness in his stomach and his chest. It’s childish and wonderful all at once.

“Hey, bug,” he says, tugging Cole from the sofa. “Time for bed. What book do you wanna read?”

Cole picks one of those _Magic Treehouse_ books, and they make it through a chapter together before he dozes off. Hank tucks him in as best he can. He’s probably not doing it right, he doesn’t have the right touch for things like that—he doesn’t cut Cole’s sandwiches into fun shapes. Sometimes he forgets to pack him a lunch at all and gives him money for the cafeteria instead.

But it could be worse. He’s still a better dad than his dad was.

With Cole asleep, he heads back downstairs and melts into his favorite armchair. It takes him a couple of minutes to compose the first text to Connor—he wants it to be _right_ , you know? Sharing his problems has always been hard for him, but one of the things the therapist said, and one of the only things he took away from their sessions, is that writing it out helps. Putting words to it, _helps_. So he tries to put words to it.

(8:26 PM) I’m fucking annoyed I can’t ask you out

(8:27 PM) _I’m sorry_

(8:27 PM) It’s not your fault

(8:27 PM) _It’s my job_

Hank sighs.

(8:28 PM) And you like your job, don’t you

(8:28 PM) _I love it._

(8:28 PM) So let’s not blame this on you doing thing you want to do, ok?

(8:28 PM) It’s nobody’s fault

(8:29 PM) It’s a shit situation we both gotta live with

(8:29 PM) _Okay_

(8:30 PM) _I would say yes if you asked._

Hank knew this, he _knew_ it, and yet seeing it written out plainly like that leaves him slack-jawed.

(8:31 PM) Can you hold that thought until june

(8:31 PM) _Yes_.

Hank smiles at his phone. He’s got that feeling again, the one that he had when he saw Connor’s number in their chat.

He doesn’t know what to say. It’s a nice moment. He wishes it were happening with the two of them in the same room.

(8:32 PM) So what the fuck do I do until then

(8:32 PM) How am I supposed to look at you

(8:32 PM) without exploding

(8:33 PM) _Don’t explode. That would be bad_

(8:33 PM) _We can talk all you want_

(8:33 PM) do YOU want to talk to ME?

(8:34 PM) _Yes_

(8:34 PM) _What do you want to talk about_?

What does Hank want to talk about. A minute ago he felt like he had a million things to ask Connor, and now that he’s presented the opportunity, his head is empty.

(8:35 PM) What did you do today

The text looks stupid while he’s writing it and continues looking stupid after he’s sent it.

(8:36 PM) _I taught_

(8:36 PM) _Do you want to hear about that?_

At first Hank thinks, no, of course not. Connor can’t talk about teaching, because he might talk about Cole, and the awkwardness might sneak out again. Hank doesn’t want that. He likes the awkwardness where it is now, cowering around a corner somewhere.

But teaching is Connor’s job, and he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t find that patient, compassionate part of Connor especially appealing. Connor’s got what Hank is never going to have, that extra spark of _care_ that catapults an adult from caretaker to superhero.

(8:37 PM) Yeah

(8:37 PM) Every damn detail

(8:37 PM) Go

 

 

 

 

 

Connor has never liked texting, and he’s beginning to think this is because he’s never had anyone to text. Until now.

It’s odd being attached to his phone. Markus even notices and comments on it; Connor lies and says he’s discovered a crossword app he likes. “Ah, right,” says Markus, without looking up from his computer. “Your one hobby.”

No one who knows Connor would describe him as lacking in self-control. His ability to reign himself in has always been one of his strengths, and there is no reason he should begin to doubt it now. He has control over the situation with Hank. He could stop it at anytime, if it were to become inappropriate, but it hasn’t and it isn’t and it won’t.

It’s sad that they have to wait, but Connor knows patience, and he can bide his time. There will be conversations about teaching and kids and puzzles and Hank’s bizarre taste in cinema (“Eraserhead, you seen that?”) to fill the silence in Connor’s life. He would’ve wanted to get to know Hank better in any case.

No, there is nothing to worry about, there. They’ll be fine. It’s just seven months. Not even a year.

 

 

 

 

 

“Fuck a Michigan winter,” Hank grunts, stabbing the ice scraper against his windshield. A shard of ice chips off and nearly hits him in the eye.

“We’re going to be late,” says Cole’s muffled voice. “Mr. Connor doesn’t like when we’re late.” He peers out from the back seat of the car, watching his father struggle. Even with the heat on full blast in the car, Hank has spent fifteen minutes trying to free his windshield wipers from ice.

“I’m almost there, Cole.” He’s got enough of the second wiper loose now that he can give it a good jerk and—it’s free, with a shower of ice. “Okay! We’re in business!”

Victories aside, they’re still late. Hank was hoping it might be ten or fifteen minutes, but the clock in the car says it’s closer to forty-five. Big win for parenting this morning.

He parks and walks Cole inside, resisting the urge to scoop him up and run him to the classroom, because his short little legs don’t move fast enough. Their wet, snowy shoes squeak on the tile in the hallway; the security guard recognizes Hank and waves them by with a little smile. This isn’t the first time Hank has done this.

“Am I gonna get in trouble?” Cole asks as they approach the classroom door. It’s closed and Hank can hear Connor’s voice on the other side.

“No, he knows it’s not your fault. Daddy might get in trouble but you won’t.”

Cole nods, relieved.

Hank opens the classroom door, and suddenly he’s got twenty second-graders and their teacher staring at him. He ushers Cole inside. “Sorry about that, Mr. Connor.” Connor’s face is blank for a long moment, until his mouth twitches. “You have a good day, Cole.” A couple of the kids giggle while Cole pulls off his jacket and takes his seat.

As Hank shuts the classroom door, he hears Connor say, “Goodbye, Lieutenant.”

A few hours later, he’s picking through a low-fat turkey wrap at his desk—doctor’s orders—and his phone dings.

(12:11 PM) _Forty-five minutes?_

Hank rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning, too.

(12:11 PM) Forgot to put the weatherguard on my windshield last night

(12:12 PM) hmm…. texting me at school… against the rules?

(12:12 PM) _It’s lunchtime!_

The exclamation point makes Hank laugh.

(12:12 PM) _We’re having indoor recess_

(12:13 PM) _It was nice seeing you this morning_

(12:13 PM) Do you want us to be late more often

(12:13 PM) _No, but thank you_

Hank snorts, and Gavin leans around his computer monitor to glare at him. “You gonna keep giggling? You sound like a teen girl texting a boy for the first time.”

Hank flips Gavin off without looking up from his phone. “Eat shit, Reed.”

(12:14 PM) Would be nice if I didn’t have to show up late to get a look at you

(12:15 PM) _We have a trip coming up. We’re going to the aquarium and I need another chaperone._

This isn’t the first time Connor has brought up the possibility of Hank chaperoning since they started texting. Hank’s getting to know this kid well enough to realize the repetition is Connor hinting at what he wants—he doesn’t say it, not outright, he’s not so forward. He just keeps dropping it into the conversation, again and again.

Nothing he’s said so far has changed Hank’s mind about going. Texting is one thing, but going on a school trip together, having to _stand next to_ each other? It’s a bad idea. Flattering that Connor is that desperate to spend time with him, but Hank doesn’t want to fuck this up any more than he has. For Connor’s sake, and more importantly, for Cole’s.

(12:16 PM) Not gonna happen

(12:16 PM) Sorry, kid

He has yet to be so blunt about his refusal. He waits for a reply, scratching his beard.

(12:19 PM) _Recess is over. Bye_

Oh, good. So now they’re in a fight.

Hank dumps his phone on his desk and goes back to picking at his wrap.

“What happened,” Gavin simpers. “He doesn’t like you back?”

“Hey, Reed, you wanna fuck off or what?”

Gavin leans back in his chair and smirks. “I’d love to fuck off.”

 

 

 

 

 

Connor isn’t disappointed. He isn’t. Why would he be disappointed? Disappointment is a waste of a feeling.

He’s so not-disappointed that he doesn’t think about Hank for the rest of the day. He’s texted when he got out of work a few times this week, but he doesn’t today. Just not in the mood.

When he gets home, he leaves his phone in the bedroom and buries himself in a lesson plan, which eats up the rest of the evening. He doesn’t check his messages until he’s climbing into bed.

(11:12 PM) _It’s not that I don’t wanna see you_

(11:12 PM) _You know that, right_

(11:12 PM) _Of course I wanna see you_

Connor’s chest tightens, reading these messages. Maybe he was a little disappointed after all.

(11:19 PM) Then come on the trip

(11:20 PM) _You know I can’t do that_

(11:21 PM) Why not?

(11:21 PM) _Come on kid_

(11:21 PM) I don’t understand

(11:22 PM) _I can’t fuckin control myself around you_

(11:22 PM) _I drunk dialed you after meeting you twice_

(11:23 PM) _You think it’s better now that we’re doing this secret shit_

(11:23 PM) _It’s WORSE_

Connor shuts his eyes and sets his phone aside for a moment, trying to compose himself. His chest still hurts and now there’s a stinging in his throat, too.

He swallows it with some difficulty. Picks up his phone again. There are more messages.

(11:24 PM) _I saved all those photos of you from your profile_

(11:24 PM) _like an old creep_

(11:24 PM) _Sorry bout that but_

(11:24 PM) _I look at them all the time_

(11:25 PM) _It drives me fucking nuts_

(11:25 PM) _all this does_

Connor falls back to the pillows and snugs into one. He can feel himself smiling, but his throat still hurts. How does Hank do that, make him smile and hurt in the same second? How is he supposed to live in dissonance?

(11:27 PM) The same six pictures? Don’t you know what I look like by now?

(11:27 PM) _Yeah I do_

(11:28 PM) _Almost wish I didn’t_

(11:28 PM) I was thinking you might be bored with them.

(11:29 PM) _Nope_

(11:29 PM) _Wouldn’t mind some new pieces for the collection, though_

Connor opens the front-facing camera on his phone and snaps a picture of him just as he is—in his glasses, in the t-shirt he wears to bed, his hair mussed and his face partly obscured by the pillow.

It’s not an extraordinary photograph, by any means. For that reason, he hesitates before he sends it to Hank, but it’s the best he can do right now.

(11:31 PM) _jesus FUCKING CHRIST_

(11:31 PM) _You’re in bed right now???_

(11:32 PM) Yes… why, is that important?

An ellipsis pops up to show Hank typing. He seems to be typing for a very long time. Except that when Connor finally gets a message, it’s just,

(11:35 PM) _Nope_

(11:35 PM) I can send you more pictures.

(11:36 PM) _If you want to kill me_ , _sure_

Connor blushes. He is aware of how he looks, that he’s attractive to some people, but it’s been a while since anyone made him feel this… pretty? He doesn’t know the right word for it.

(11:37 PM) Can I see a picture of you?

(11:37 PM) _Ha_

(11:37 PM) _You’re kidding_

(11:38 PM) No?

(11:38 PM) Please.

Hank doesn’t respond for a few minutes. Connor sends another text.

(11:42 PM) If you won’t send me a picture, at least go on the trip with me.

(11:42 PM) It’s not fair that you get to see me and I don’t get to see you.

(11:43 PM) _Jesus_

(11:43 PM) _I wish I could fuckin say no to you_

 _(_ 11:43 PM) _Send another picture and I’ll go on the trip_

(11:44 PM) Give me a minute.

Connor smiles and rolls in his bed, caught in a rush of excitement. He lies on his back and holds the phone above himself. He pulls off his glasses, puts them back on again, and removes them a second time. He snaps the picture.

It’s close, but still—a little boring. It needs something else.

He sits up and wriggles out of his shirt. Falls back against the pillows again. Holds the phone above himself.

The second picture is better. He sends it off, no caption.

He waits for Hank to reply, expecting to see some swearing. But when the message comes—an image is loading. An alarm goes off in Connor’s head. He can’t help thinking that this is too fast, he didn’t mean for them to go this fast.

The picture loads in. It’s blurry, and… and it appears to be a picture of Hank shoving his face into a couch pillow.

Connor laughs. It surprises him—at first he doesn’t know why his ribcage is shaking.

(11:47 PM) _I’m not a young man, Connor_

(11:47 PM) _I could have a heart attack at any time_

(11:48 PM) _Do you want that on your conscience_

Connor loses control of the laughter. It takes over him in a way he’d forgotten laughter could do. Apparently there are things he can forget after all.

(11:49 PM) Stop. You’re not that old

(11:49 PM) _Right, I’m just old enough for you huh_

(11:49 PM) Yes, you’re just right

(11:50 PM) Will you really come to the aquarium?

(11:51 PM) _Yeah fine_

(11:51 PM) _You win_

(11:51 PM) Thanks (:

(11:52 PM) I’m going to sleep now

(11:52 PM) _Good night kid_

(11:52 PM) _Sleep well_

Connor does just that.

 

 

 

 

“I want to see the sting rays.”

Cole has been talking about the sting rays for a week. He’s got a couple books on the ocean and he scours them like treasure maps; when he found out the second grade winter field trip would be to the aquarium, he started talking about fish at every meal.

“What if you get stung?” Hank asks.

He likes seeing Cole this excited, so excited he can barely sit still, peering out the window of the bus for any sign of aquarium. “Only if I touch the tail.”

“So… just to be clear, when I pet the sting ray, I _should_ touch the tail?”

“No, Dad, you _don’t_ touch the tail!”

Hank grins to himself. “Ah. Okay. I think I got it.”

Yellow buses feel smaller once you hit six feet, go figure, and Hank’s relieved to stretch his legs when they finally pull up to the aquarium.

The kids are really into the fish and it seems like there are a million of them—both the kids and the fish. He has his little group he’s assigned to keep an eye on, including Cole. Somehow he thought this was going to be a day off, but he ends up running more in the aquarium than he has in his last five years of detective work, just to keep up with a handful of seven year olds.

Aside from a greeting before they left the school, Hank hasn’t seen Connor yet during the trip. So much for the two of them getting some face time, or whatever the point of this was. But at least he gets to… stare at some fish. They’ve got this big tunnel you walk through, with glass and water all around. The kids are crazy about it.

“Lieutenant Anderson.”

God, the downside to all this texting is that he never gets to hear Connor’s voice. He just has to imagine it, and he never had much of an imagination. Certainly not one of replicating that sound.

He turns and Connor is standing, waiting, watching him. “How is everything going with your group?”

“Good. We’re on, uh—” He squints at the scavenger hunt they’re supposed to be doing, even though Hank’s really doing it himself and having the kids copy down his answers. “Sharks. We’re looking for some sharks, right now.” He indicates his kids, who all have their faces pressed against the glass.

“Oh, good,” says Connor, looking down. Hank wants to grab him by the elbow and say, _Hey, don’t be weird._ _There are kids and teachers here._ But Connor knows that, Hank’s just—he just feels like you could see them talking and know at a glance that he’s got two shirtless pictures of Connor on his phone. “I was going to use the restroom. Now is a good time to do that. There are a couple of teachers who can watch my group.”

“Okay,” says Hank slowly, not really sure what Connor is trying to do, but feeling like he should go along with it.

“Okay,” Connor echoes. He smiles his polite smile and walks off. Hank watches him exit the tunnel.

Hank finds the nearest teacher from their group. “Hey, uh, I need to—can you watch my group for a second? I gotta take a work call and the service in here…” He doesn’t need to say anything more, she’s already nodding.

He slips out of the tunnel and follows the signs to the men’s room, trying to shrug off the feeling that they’re crossing a line. Or maybe that he misread the situation and Connor just needed to take a leak.

The bathroom is covered in mosaics of fish, and smells like your typical public men’s room. At least it’s empty—except for Connor, who’s standing at one of the sinks, washing his hands. Hank hesitates by the door, then shuffles over to the sink beside Connor’s. He doesn’t even turn on the water, he just… stands there staring at his reflection in the mirror, until Connor shuts off his sink and pats off his hands on a paper towel.

Hank turns and lets himself look at Connor, finally. They face each other in silence, and Hank can feel Connor doing the same thing to him that he’s doing to Connor—scanning him for details that photographs can’t render, things you can only see if you’re standing a foot away from a person and the light is good. Things like the endless constellation of Connor’s moles and the sheen of blotchy red under his cheeks. Things you get when you’re close enough to touch.

Hank would’ve been alright to stand there in silence for the whole encounter, however many minutes they have before they’re missed, but Connor speaks.

“Are you having fun?”

Hank struggles not to laugh. “Sure. Gonna see some sting rays.”

“Cole likes them.”

“So you noticed too?”

Connor smiles one of the real ones and it’s—fucking terrible. It’s terrible that Hank is standing a foot away from Connor, after three months of dreaming he’d ever get this close, and it’s terrible that he shouldn’t do anything about it.

That he shouldn’t. Not that he won’t.

Hank knew this would happen. That he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

He steps forward, just a little. Just enough that he feels one of Connor’s exhales tickle his neck.

At no time did he imagine he’d kiss Connor for the first time in an aquarium bathroom, and yet he’s at the point where he’d take this opportunity anywhere, if the moment came up. He’s desperate to feel Connor’s neck against his palm. To feel his _mouth_.

One of Connor’s hands sneaks up and settles on his chest. The weight of it is there for—not even a complete second, just long enough for Hank to memorize the feeling—and then Connor’s fingers pluck at his jacket. “You only had half your collar up.” He tugs gently on the canvas lapel. “There. That’s better.” Connor takes a neat little half-step back from Hank, out of kiss range.

“Thanks for the help,” Hank grunts, trying not to feel egged on by the blush spreading up Connor’s neck. If he blushes on his neck, he might blush elsewhere, too.

How the fuck is it only December?

“Enjoy the sting rays,” Connor says, his voice pitched nearly to a squeak. He side steps Hank and marches out of the bathroom.

Hank’s resulting groan echoes off the tall ceilings. “Fucking sting rays.”

 

 

 

 

Big surprise that they avoid each other for the rest of the aquarium trip. Hank is all annoyance and regrets and—and _grump_. As they’re getting on the buses to head home, he finally gets his shit together enough to send Connor a text.

(3:19 PM) Told you it was a bad idea

He doesn’t expect to hear back for a while, obviously Connor is busy, he just needed to put it out there. Connor must check his phone during the bus ride.

(3:34 PM) _It wasn’t bad_

(3:35 PM) But you didn’t want it

(3:35 PM) _It wasn’t the right place_

That’s—fair enough. Hank shoves his phone in his pocket and spends the rest of the journey home talking to Cole about his favorite parts of the day. The sting rays come up a lot.

By the time he gets back to the house, serves their drive-thru dinner in front of the television, puts Cole to bed, and walks Sumo, it’s after nine o’clock, and he’s just getting back to his conversation with Connor.

(4:39 PM) _Are you upset with me?_

If only he’d seen that text five hours ago.

(9:12 PM) Course not

(9:12 PM) You drive me kinda crazy

(9:12 PM) But I think I like that

(9:13 PM) _I don’t want you to feel crazy_

Connor answers like he’s been staring at his phone the whole time, and Hank has to shove down some guilt about that.

(9:13 PM) _I don’t want you to be frustrated_

(9:14 PM) I’m gonna be frustrated no matter what, kid

(9:15 PM) _Why?_

 

 

 

 

Connor tops off his glass of red wine. It was a long day.

(9:15 PM) Why?

(9:16 PM) _Cause I want you_

(9:16 PM) _Pretty fuckin bad actually_

(9:16 PM) _Are you not frustrated at all_

He glances up from his phone and finds himself absently licking red wine from his lips. “I’m going to take my wine to bed,” he calls to Markus in the kitchen.

“It’s not even half past nine?”

“I’m tired. I had a field trip today.”

“Say no more.”

Connor escapes into his bedroom, locking the door behind him. It feels like an unnecessary precaution, but he can’t help it. He puts his wine and phone on the nightstand and changes out of his work clothes, but hesitates when it comes to pajamas, so that he’s standing in his room in his underwear for a moment. It’s hard for him to stay like this, even knowing no one can see him. He takes a seat atop the covers and reaches for his phone.

(9:19 PM) I’m very frustrated

(9:19 PM) _Yeah? You don’t show it_

(9:20 PM) Do you want me to show it?

(9:20 PM) How should I do that?

(9:21 PM) _You don’t gotta_

(9:21 PM) _Let’s forget it, okay?_

(9:21 PM) _And no more school trips for me_

Connor frowns at his phone and fidgets where he sits. He grabs the wine and downs half the glass in a few gulps, wincing as it burns his throat.

(9:22 PM) What are you doing right now?

(9:22 PM) _??_

(9:22 PM) _Watching tv_

Talk about frustrating. Connor takes a deep breath.

(9:23 PM) Cole is asleep, right?

(9:23 PM) _Yeah_

(9:23 PM) _What are you up to?_

Finally, a good question. Connor sees the moment in that bathroom in high definition, every flinch and sigh recorded for perfect posterity in his head. He can remember exactly the shockwave he felt when Hank stepped toward him; he can remember exactly how the heat spread through his body. He can remember scenarios that ran through his head in an instant—Hank kissing him softly, Hank kissing him roughly, Hank turning him around and bending him over the sink.

He can remember the faint beat of the heart in Hank’s chest when he laid his hand up against it.

Connor lays back in his bed. Another deep breath—he has to remind himself not to let his breathing get too shallow, not to let himself lose that much control. Because he’s still in control. There’s nothing out of control about getting what you want.

He takes a picture of his face, then flips the camera, so it captures his torso, his hips, his legs. He lets his free hand slide down his stomach. Just before he snaps the picture, he slides his fingers an inch beneath the elastic of his underwear. _Click_.

He sits up to send the pictures to Hank, his hands shaking. He hasn’t done anything like this in years, and never with someone who hadn’t already seen all there was to see.

(9:26 PM) _Oh_

(9:26 PM) _THAT’S what you’re up to_

Connor bites his lip.

(9:27 PM) And…?

(9:27 PM) _And_

(9:27 PM) _Is it not fucking obvious?_

(9:27 PM) _Give me five minutes_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do u ever d*e


	4. razor

(9:31 PM) _I have a request before we begin_

Hank is trying to climb the stairs and remove his belt at the same time when he stops to read this text, and he loses his balance, catching himself on the railing. He’s got to stop rushing, otherwise he’s going to get himself killed before he can fuck Connor via iMessage, in which case he’d become the world’s horniest ghost.

He waits until he’s conquered the stairs to reply.

(9:33 PM) Shoot

(9:34 PM) _I would rather you didn’t refer to me as ‘kid’ while we are having a sexual encounter._

(9:34 PM) _I find it infantilizing._

(9:35 PM) _That is a turn-off._

(9:35 PM) _I’m an adult._

Hank stops in the middle of taking off his pants to stare at this series of messages, his mouth hanging open.

(9:36 PM) Noted?

(9:36 PM) I can’t tell if you’re trying to lay down ground rules or if you get off on scolding me

(9:37 PM) _A combination of both, I think_

“Jesus Christ,” Hank mutters to the quiet darkness of his room.

(9:37 PM) You got something you want me to call you instead

(9:38 PM) _I like ‘Connor_ ’

(9:38 PM) That’s just your name

(9:38 PM) _I’m aware!_

Hank flops back on to his bed with a snort. He’s now shirt on, pants off, still in his boxers.

(9:39 PM) OK, Connor

(9:39 PM) Cole is asleep

(9:39 PM) Dog’s in the kennel downstairs

(9:39 PM) You got me in my bed

(9:39 PM) With the door locked

(9:40 PM) What can I do for you

He scrolls back up to look at the pictures Connor sent him, the one of his face and _the other one_. The one that had him a little bit hard as he tried to get upstairs. He’s pretty fucking proud of that, actually, being able to get it up from one picture. Even looking at it now, studying the outline of Connor’s dick in his underwear, he could probably get himself going enough that he wouldn’t need Connor’s help.

Except he’s not a fool, so he’s going to take all the help Connor will give him.

(9:41 PM) _You can’t do anything for me because you’re not here_

Hank rolls his eyes.

(9:42 PM) Oh so I should just go to bed, huh

(9:42 PM) _No_

(9:42 PM) Then what do you want

(9:43 PM) _You said you want me_

(9:43 PM) Yeah I did

(9:44 PM) _What do you want from me?_

(9:44 PM) _Can you tell me about it?_

(9:45 PM) Hmmmm

(9:45 PM) _Please._

(9:45 PM) There’s the magic word

Hank is grinning, but honestly, he hasn’t done this… maybe ever. He can talk dirty, sure, but he hasn’t had much time or many opportunities to practice his digital seduction tactics.

Is it that different to type it than it is to speak it? He doesn’t know. His best guess is that if he goes with his gut and says just what he’s thinking, it’ll get the job done. That’s always been his experience with sex talk in the past.

(9:46 PM) Honestly I wanna fuck you until you can’t breathe

(9:46 PM) But that’s the short version and I get the feeling you’re not looking for the short version

(9:47 PM) _I’m not_

Connor’s next text is an image, and Hank settles back into his pillows to watch it load.

The same angle of his chest and hips from before, but his hand has slide further into his boxer briefs. Hank’s eyes roll again, this time into the back of his head.

(9:48 PM) _The long version._

(9:48 PM) _The more you talk the more pictures I send._

(9:49 PM) Sounds like a fun deal

(9:49 PM) _Maybe you’ll send me some pictures too?_

(9:50 PM) Maybe

(9:50 PM) You’re gonna have to earn that

 

 

 

 

 

A question has been echoing in Connor’s head, but the warmer he gets, the less he’s inclined to ask himself if he’s doing this right.

(9:50 PM) _Are you hard_

He glances down his torso, at the now rather obvious bulge in his underwear. He didn’t really need to look to know—he can tell by the heat in his groin—but there is a bizarre pleasure he takes in doing this with the lights on, in being naked, in clutching his phone in one hand and knowing he’s about to touch himself with the other. He feels exhilarated. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears.

(9:51 PM) Yes

(9:51 PM) _That’s good_

(9:51 PM) _I would wanna do something about that_

(9:51 PM) _Jerk you off maybe_

(9:52 PM) _You wanna do it for me?_

(9:52 PM) Okay.

(9:52 PM) _Gonna need some evidence_

Connor fumbles through the beside drawer for the jar of lubricant he almost never uses. If he needs to get off he usually tries to do it in the shower, for ease of clean up. He supposes that option is off the table tonight, but that too is satisfying in a bizarre way.

He squeezes a small amount into his palm and reaches back into his underwear. He grips himself under the fabric, at first, until he realizes he’s going to need to take a picture. More than one picture, most likely.

So he shoves his underwear off his hips and down his legs, exposing himself to the bedroom, blushing at how red his dick looks in the light. He wraps his hand around it, bites his lip, and pulls up the camera on his phone. _Click_.

He gives himself one good, slow pump while he waits for the image to send.

(9:53 PM) _Shit_

(9:53 PM) _Howd you feel if that was my hand instead_

Hank’s hands. One of the first things Connor noticed about him, when they shook in greeting—bigger than Connor’s, stronger and thicker. Imaging one of them in place of his own makes him choke slightly on his spit. He hadn’t noticed himself beginning to salivate. Connor strokes himself more, faster, typing out his response to Hank with his thumb.

(9:54 PM) Good

(9:55 PM) _You have to write that one-handed huh_

(9:55 PM) _Can’t stop touching yourself long enough to type_

(9:55 PM) _Kinda slutty_

(9:56 PM) _Bet you’re leaking cum right now_

Connor slides his hand down the length of his cock and fingers the precum pooling at the tip. He tries to do it like he imagines Hank might, rough and unshy.

(9:56 PM) _You better slow down or you’ll come too fast_

(9:57 PM) No

(9:57 PM) _Havent gotten to fuck you yet_

Connor’s throat makes a noise for him. Some kind of whimper-groan.

(9:56 PM) _I think I want you to stop_

Connor pries himself from his dick, leaving himself uncomfortably hard. He wipes his fingers on a tissue so he can at least type.

(9:57 PM) This is cruel of you.

(9:58 PM) _You wanna stop_

(9:58 PM) _?_

(9:58 PM) No!

(9:59 PM) Can I see your erection?

(9:59 PM) _You seem pretty sure I got one_

Connor glares at this message. He snaps a closer picture of the very red, very wet cock currently resting on his stomach and sends it to Hank.

(10:00 PM) Don’t you?

(10:00 PM) _K I see your point_

(10:00 PM) _Not sure you get to see it until you’re ready to take it_

(10:01 PM) _We gotta get you loosened up first_

(10:01 PM) _Seem fair?_

(10:01 PM) Would you be teasing me like this if you were in my bed right now?

(10:02 PM) _Would you like me to_

(10:02 PM) _Cause right now I just know you want my dick real bad_

(10:02 PM) _And I’m gonna milk that for all its worth_

Connor licks his lips; he tastes traces of wine and salt.

(10:03 PM) What should I do next?

(10:03 PM) _Thought you’d never ask_

 

 

 

 

 

(10:01 PM) _Would you be teasing me like this if you were in my bed right now?_

Hank has to go back and reread that text a couple of times. A better question is, what the fuck _wouldn’t_ he be doing if he were in Connor’s bed right now?

He hasn’t touched himself, aside from a couple of squeezes through the boxers, enough to keep him typing. It’s not the most comfortable of feelings, but hey, the pure desperation and desire seeping into Connor’s messages is infinitely more important and worth it in the long run.

(10:04 PM) I gotta open you up now

(10:04 PM) Gonna have to use your fingers since I can’t use mine

(10:04 PM) Sound good?

He claws at his beard while he waits for Connor to respond. He has to fill in these gaps for himself.

(10:05 PM) _Ok_

(10:06 PM) _Hard to take a picture_

(10:06 PM) Anything is fine

That might not line up with the teasing persona, but Hank’s got his own desperation to deal with. If he doesn’t get to see Connor fingering himself based on his instructions, he might actually fucking die.

Connor’s picture comes through. Hank expected something _bad_ , not—a clear, close up image of Connor’s middle finger up his own asshole, shot from between his legs.

Fuck. Hank squeezes himself through his shorts again.

(10:07 PM) Oh Con

(10:07 PM) My fingers are thicker than yours

(10:07 PM) You gotta add another

(10:08 PM) I’d feel twice as big as that

(10:08 PM) _Ok_

Aside from the whole fact of him liking Connor, liking when they talk, liking when he smiles, liking the way he is with Cole—all that aside, this scenario he’s in, where a hot twink does whatever sexual shit to himself Hank wants, is mind-numbingly incredible. He’ll go fast when ever he gets around to it.

(10:09 PM) How’s it feel

(10:10 PM) _Good_

(10:10 PM) _I want to come period_

(10:11 PM) _I’m using talk to text period_

(10:11 PM) _Please let me come hank exclamation point_

Trying not to laugh is useless. He imagines Connor on all fours, fingering himself, whispering into the phone so his roommate doesn’t hear.

(10:12 PM) Are you ready for my dick?

(10:12 PM) _Yes please_

(10:13 PM) _I want it_

(10:13 PM) _I want your dick_

(10:13 PM) You gotta do one more thing

(10:13 PM) _Ok_

(10:14 PM) I want a picture of your back

(10:14 PM) And your ass

(10:14 PM) I’m gonna fuck you from behind

He’s still laughing a little when he writes this, which makes it seem all the more ridiculous. He’s not going to fuck Connor, because he isn’t with Connor, because he’s not supposed to be. All this is fake. Connor can’t be more than a few miles away from him right now, but he might as well be on the other side of the world.

It’s a sad thought. Been a while since he had a sad thought intrude on his quest for sexual pleasure. He feels young again in the worst way.

The picture he requested arrives. Connor has somehow managed to take it with his ass in the foreground—the view Hank would have if he were really behind Connor right now, if he were really about to be balls deep in ass. The pale swoop of his back defies anything Hank expected from this night—he can see the moles on his shoulder blades and along the nape of his neck. He can see the dimple in the small of his back. He can feel how smooth and firm Connor’s skin would be against his rougher, older hands, and how it might give way if he pressed his nails into it. Or—he can _almost_ feel it. Almost.

Fuck being sad. Connor likes him enough to do— _this_ , and hell, maybe they’re not together in a real way but he’d be a fucking loser if he didn’t feel grateful.

He finally gets his dick out of his boxers. Connor must sense that they’re reaching that point.

(10:16 PM) _Can I see it now?_

(10:16 PM) Yeah

Hank doesn’t like having his picture taken, and he especially doesn’t like having his picture taken for the purpose of arousing somebody else, because it feels like a waste of a photo. But his cock is the one part of his body he’s pretty used to getting compliments about, so he swallows the embarrassment and snaps a picture of his now raging erection.

(10:17 PM) _Oh Hank that is very large_

He laughs again. Doesn’t seem normal to be laughing this much and still feeling aroused out of his mind.

(10:17 PM) So I’m told

(10:17 PM) You want it?

(10:18 PM) _Yes please_

(10:18 PM) OK

(10:18 PM) Fuck yourself with your fingers until you cum

(10:19 PM) Jerk off if you need to

(10:19 PM) But think about the fingers cause that’s my dick in your ass

(10:19 PM) Fucking you

(10:20 PM) _Ok_

(10:20 PM) Text me when you’re done

(10:20 PM) with evidence

(10:21 PM) _I will_

Hank starts stroking himself while he waits for Connor to finish, though it’s become obvious to him that he won’t be able to get off until he knows Connor has, too.

A picture pops up in their chat sooner than he expected: streaks of white on navy fabric. There’s a shot of heat right to Hank’s groin, right to his cock.

(10:24 PM) _I did it_

(10:24 PM) _Was it good for you?_

His hand speeds up on his cock. He goes back to the picture of Connor’s ass and back and tries to step inside it, tries to see himself there. He leans into the fantasy of it, a fantasy in which Connor feels perfectly tight on the dick, in which he throws his head back to moan Hank’s name, in which Hank has him over his stupidly neat desk in his stupidly neat classroom, in which he fucks him into oblivion.

Unsurprisingly, it’s the best orgasm he’s given himself in years, hitting him like a slap in the face. He bites down on a terrible grunt of a noise and smacks his head painfully against the headboard, both of these things far beyond his control.

He feels himself going numb as he comes down from it. He’s exhausted suddenly, of course. He reaches for a tissue to wipe off his sticky hand.

His phone buzzes; he dropped it when he was coming.

(10:29 PM) _Hank?_

(10:29 PM) I’m here

He snaps a quick picture of his hand, pre-cleaning, and sends it to Connor.

(10:30 PM) I was busy

(10:31 PM) _No, that’s good_

(10:31 PM) _How was it?_

He’s glad Connor can’t see the look on his face. He’d probably take it the wrong way, seeing Hank exasperated at that question.

(10:32 PM) It was stellar, Con

(10:32 PM) I busted a top notch nut

(10:32 PM) _Ah_

(10:33 PM) _You’re making fun of me._

(10:33 PM) Little bit

(10:33 PM) It’s affectionate I swear

(10:34 PM) _I understood that, I think_

(10:34 PM) _Are you going to call me Con now?_

(10:34 PM) I might. Are you hating it

(10:35 PM) _No. It’s all right_

Hank smiles. He puts his dick away, so he’s not sitting around with it out. That makes him feel slightly more human.

(10:35 PM) _Can I ask you something?_

Uh-oh. That’s never a good question.

(10:35 PM) Depends on what it is

(10:36 PM) _I’m going to ask._

(10:36 PM) _Do you have romantic affection for me?_

What the fuck kinda question is that? Hank squints at his phone. He doesn’t know what to say, except,

(10:36 PM) Hey what the fuck kinda question is that

(10:37 PM) _We have a sexual connection. I wanted to know if you also had romantic affection for me._

(10:37 PM) _It’s all right if not._

(10:37 PM) _But I am also attracted to you in a romantic way. So I’d like to know how you feel._

Well, fuck. How did they escalate from sexting to ‘where is this relationship headed’ in ten minutes?

Twenty-five year old Hank would’ve had a much different reaction to this line of questioning. He would’ve escaped the conversation, somehow, or worse, he would’ve lied to get what he wanted.

But twenty-five year old Hank died twenty-five years ago, and he died again when Cole was born, and again when Hank became a widower. He hasn’t been that guy in a long, long time. He’s learned better than to lie about this shit. He’s learned that you can’t protect yourself from the pain of falling out of love. It’ll only hurt more if you put it off.

A little while ago, Connor had asked what Hank would do if he were in Connor’s bed, and one of his many answers involved wrapping his arms around that toothpick torso and just—holding him, for a while. Kissing his cheek. Brushing the hair from his eyes.

(10:40 PM) I don’t know how you want me to put this

(10:41 PM) _However you like._

(10:41 PM) _But please be honest with me._

(10:42 PM) I can’t think of a way I’m not attracted to you, Con

(10:43 PM) _Oh._

(10:43 PM) _That would indicate you’re romantically attracted to me as well._

(10:44 PM) Seems like it

(10:45 PM) _I wish I had let you kiss me earlier today._

(10:45 PM) _I’m sorry_

Hank shuts his eyes for a second. That one still stings a little.

(10:45 PM) Don’t worry about it

(10:46 PM) _I’m not worried about it. I just wish I knew what it felt like to kiss you._

Hank clenches his jaw. He understands that feeling. It seems like they’re doing all this out of order.

(10:46 PM) You really wanna know?

(10:47 PM) _Yes_.

(10:47 PM) _I want to know if your beard tickles._

(10:47 PM) All right

(10:48 PM) Send me your address.

(10:48 PM) _Cole?_

(10:48 PM) He’s asleep he’ll be fine for 15 minutes

(10:49 PM) _No_

(10:49 PM) Connor

(10:49 PM) _Let me come to you_

 

 

 

 

 

“I thought you’d gone to bed.”

Connor freezes at the sound of Markus’s voice. He is merely a few steps from the apartment’s front door. He was close to escaping unseen.

“No,” says Connor simply. He can’t think of a good lie. “I changed my mind.”

Markus eyes him. He notes the keys in Connor’s hand, and the fact that Connor has put on jeans and a t-shirt and his coat. Connor accurately predicts his next question will be: “Where are you going?”

Being able to predict the question doesn’t make it any easier to answer. Again there are no lies in his head, only thoughts of Hank. “Out,” says Connor.

Markus is holding a mug of something, likely peppermint tea, which he enjoys before bed. He sips it thoughtfully. “Are you going to have fun?”

Connor only stares at him in reply. He’s concerned about giving away the truth, that he’s already had fun tonight, and what he’s about to engage in might veer into the territory of _too much fun_.

“Good,” says Markus, smiling. “Enjoy it. Be careful on the roads. It’s supposed to snow.” He disappears into his room. Connor pauses for a moment, to let his heart get out of his throat. His lips are twitching.

(11:01 PM) I’m in the car.

(11:01 PM) Be there soon.

(11:02 PM) _You know where youre goin?_

(11:02 PM) Yes.

(11:02 PM) I remember it from Cole’s record.

(11:02 PM) Is that too strange?

(11:03 PM) _Nah it’s fine_

(11:03 PM) _Dont ring the bell, the dog will lose it_

The roads are quiet. Few people are out late in a town like this. The drive to Hank’s house takes him only seven minutes, and he knows the route well; he’s begun to jog by it regularly.

He parks on the side of the street opposite Hank’s and has to navigate a snow bank to get out of the car. It’s cold tonight, and the sky appears overcast, heavy with the snow Markus mentioned. Connor avoids patches of ice on his walk to the front door. He can’t see any lights on inside.

(11:10 PM) I’m outside.

(11:11 PM) _It’s unlocked_

Connor opens the door just enough to slip inside. He doesn’t even move his hand off the knob, letting the door hold some of his weight, because his knees don’t feel especially sturdy right now. His vision takes a moment to adjust to the darkness, but he can see Hank, in sweatpants, stand up from an armchair and take a step toward him.

Somewhere in this house, there’s a clock ticking. A dog’s collar jingles faintly, then rests. Aside from that, and the wail of wind outside from the oncoming storm, there’s silence between them.

Hank puts a finger to his lips and gestures to the stairs. Cole is up there, asleep. Connor nods.

He watches Hank hesitate, sigh, and move toward him.

He stops about a foot from Connor, whose back is still against the door. The same distance between them at the aquarium today, the distance that Connor wouldn’t let Hank close, though it now feels like that happened years ago.

He lets Hank close it now. He lets Hank get closer to him than Hank ever has before, and at this proximity of inches he can sense what he’d tried to envision feverishly an hour ago: Hank’s size in comparison to him, his height and width overcoming Connor’s own. The solid heft of his arms, which he rests on either side of Connor’s head, caging him against the door.

Connor wonders if Hank is thinking the same thing he’s thinking. He wonders if Hank, too, is puzzled by how monumental this moment feels, if he struggles to understand the heady pulse of excitement running through his body, if he can barely breathe for the thickness of the air between their mouths. He wonders if Hank knows why what’s about to happen feels like more than a kiss, even though that’s all it is, just a kiss. Connor considers asking him, but he doesn’t want to break the silence, and he’s forgotten the sound of his own voice.

Hank dips his head toward Connor’s, and then his mouth is on Connor’s mouth. He’s warm, and he tastes good, like mint, and it occurs to Connor he may have brushed his teeth in preparation for this. Connor lets his eyes fall closed and parts his lips beneath Hank’s. The beard does tickle, but not as much as Connor had thought. It is amazing to know this for sure.

Hank’s tongue in his mouth—and the heat goes to his abdomen, and a little lower than that, again. Ah. Connor puts his arms around Hank’s neck and pulls them closer, wanting him to know that yes, this is good, this is what he wants. Their stomachs touch, and heat surges in Connor’s pelvis again, and he hears Hank make a sound that might be the smallest of laughs.

And then there is another sound, not from Hank, not from Connor, but from the stairs.

“Daddy?”

Hank breaks their kiss and pulls himself from Connor’s arms. “Hey. Cole. Hey. What’s goin’ on?”

Cole appears at the top of the staircase, climbing down to them. He wears pajamas with dinosaurs on them and looks just-woken from an unhappy sleep. Connor’s chest aches. It is plausible but unlikely that Cole saw what they were doing. “I had a bad dream.”

“That’s no good, bug.”

Connor remains frozen in place. He’s hidden from Cole’s view by Hank, but Hank steps forward and opens his arms to Cole, then hoists his son onto his hip.

Connor knows he’ll be seen. The best he can do is rearrange his face into something resembling a smile, something that gives no indication of how violently ill he’s feeling.

Cole puts his arms around his father’s neck, and his eyes come to rest on Connor. He asks what any second grader would ask upon seeing their teacher in their home, which is, “Am I in trouble?”

Hank says, “Of course not, bug,” at the same time that Connor says, “No, you’re not.”

Hank gives Connor a smile. “Mr. Connor is just here to say hi to me.” He seems to be waiting for Connor to say or do something reassuring, but Connor can only manage a small wave to Cole. “Tell me about your bad dream,” Hank says, carrying Cole over to the couch. “You know that’s what we do with bad dreams. If you say them out loud, they don’t seem scary anymore.”

Cole nods, as though they’ve discussed this a hundred times. Connor, still glued to the door, watches Hank console his son. He has no idea what to do, if he should leave, if he should participate in the conversation because he, too, is an important figure in Cole’s life. But they don’t make handbooks for situations where you’ve gone over to a student’s house late at night to kiss their parent, and so he has no guidance to pluck from research or experience, like he’d do with any other difficult student scenario.

“I dreamed I was at the hospital,” Cole says. Connor watches the smile slide off of Hank’s face. “And I was lost. I couldn’t find you or Mommy.”

The word _Mommy_ makes Connor feel as though his heart has dropped out of his chest, like he should be able to look down and see it lying there on the floor.

“Oh, bug,” says Hank, wrapping Cole in a hug. “That’s a bad one. I have that one sometimes too.”

Tears start to come into Cole’s voice. “I didn’t know where you were. I kept looking.”

“Well, you shouldn’t worry about that, ‘cause I’m always gonna be here.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want me to read you something so you can go back to sleep?” Cole nods into Hank’s shoulder, and Hank lifts him up again, heading back for the stairs. “You wanna say good night to Mr. Connor?”

“Good night.”

“Good night, Cole,” Connor manages. “Sleep well.”

As Hank passes him on the way upstairs, he says, “I think we’re heading to bed, Mr. Connor. Don’t worry about locking the door.” And then he mouths, _Sorry_.

Connor clears his throat. “No, it’s all right. Go. Good night.”

He waits until Hank and Cole have disappeared from the top of the stairs, then lets himself out, to stand on the front step of Hank’s house. The night is colder than he remembered, and snow has begun to fall. He has no explanation for the stinging in his throat, or why his eyes itch suddenly, until he realizes he’s trying very hard not to cry.

He blinks and feels a tear fall on his cheek. It cools against his skin in the frigid, snowy air, leaving a speck of a sensation beneath his eye, until he wipes it away.

Bizarre. He can’t think of anything that should cause him to cry. Some leftover hormones from earlier, perhaps? Or the cold.

Occam’s razor, after all. The simplest explanation is most often correct. Best he not overthink it, or he might end up feeling confused. He hates feeling confused.

He crosses the street to his car, once again careful not to slip on the ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i'm gonna take a break from this update schedule because, lol.


	5. issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a heads up: there’s discussion of bad fathers and “daddy issues” in this chapter.

The students are having outdoor recess for the first time in weeks, meaning Connor can do as he wishes during his lunch, and he wishes to visit the library.

Connor knows better than to assume the library is as empty as it seems. He knocks gently on the desk at the front of the room. He likes the library—he likes to look at the posters lining the walls and think about the first time he read the books the represent, titles like _Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes_ and _Stuart Little_ and _Where the Sidewalk Ends,_ their covers proudly displayed beside a list of rules for borrowing books. The shelves that line the library are only three feet tall, so even the kindergarteners can reach, and there’s an area in the corner filled with pillows and bean bag chairs, for settling in with a book. It’s Connor’s favorite place in the school after his classroom.

The top of a head appears over one of the shelves, and followed by a pair of icy blue eyes.

“Hello.”

“Why are you on the floor, Niles?”

“A first grader knocked down a shelf of picture books. I’m re-alphabetizing.”

Connor grabs a floor cushion from the reading corner and takes it to sit nearer to Niles while he sorts through the books. “How are you?”

Niles blinks at him. He’s wearing more eyeliner than usual today. This means he’s in a good mood, or he was when he woke up this morning. “I’m fine, which you know. You only ask me how I am when something’s wrong for you.”

“Do I?” says Connor, though Niles is likely right. They have known each other for quite a long time, after all. It’s fair to say that Niles can see through Connor’s exterior better than anyone.

“Yes. You may as well tell me what it is.”

“I would if I knew.”

“You don’t know what’s bothering you?”

It would be more accurate to say that Connor doesn’t know what isn’t bothering him. He has more to be upset about right now than the alternative. “I cried the other night.” Niles raises an eyebrow. “The last time I cried was when I was ten and you were nine and Dad pulled over the car on the way to Disneyworld to tell me Mickey Mouse isn’t real and will never be my friend.”

“I remember that,” says Niles. “I thought it was hilarious.”

“You did.”

“Dad’s a jerk.”

“I don’t think he has anything to do with it, this time.”

“Dad always has something to do with it,” says Niles, not disguising his bitterness. He’s always been more upfront about his—issues with their father. More than Connor will allow himself to be. “But you don’t know what the present problem is.”

“I guess I have a few ideas.” The more Connor prods at this question—and he’s spent the last few days doing so—the more he recognizes that he is feeling something he doesn’t know how to name. If it were merely the hormonal after-glow or the chill that made him cry at Hank’s, he should be better now, but the lump in his throat refuses to go away. “Niles,” he asks, “Are you aware of any official school rules against romantic relationships between parents and teachers?”

Niles stops what he’s doing and stares at Connor long and hard. Connor can feel his brother analyzing him, trying to learn what he can about why Connor asked this question. Connor gives him nothing other than the obvious: if the topic is being brought up, it’s probably relevant to Connor’s life.

“That,” says Niles slowly, “would be a question for a principal.”

“If I ask her she’ll know it’s an issue.”

“And what if she finds out it’s an issue the other way?”

“I’m not going to let that happen.”

The corner of Niles’s mouth turns up. “Does that mean there’s something she could find out about, other than how you’re feeling?”

Connor feels himself turning pink, which at least answers Niles’s question for him.

“It sounds like your bed is made,” says Niles, examining the spine of a book. _The Giving Tree_. “Though not literally, I’m assuming.”

“It wasn’t that serious.” Connor wishes it had been as overt as him actually sleeping with Hank. Then he could have a full sensational memory of what happened. Instead, there’s just texts and pictures and a kiss. Harder to moralize. “Not serious enough to explain my—emotional predicament.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Is—is it?”

Niles shrugs. “It seems to me that you haven’t been in a relationship in five years, and you value nothing more than your job and your students, and that the thought of having to choose between being alone and living up to your own standards as an educator would naturally cause a significant emotional upheaval in you. Particularly if you consider the parent in question a viable long-term partner.”

“Ah,” says Connor. He feels a little faint.

“And then,” Niles continues, shaking his head, “you have to consider the ramifications of entering into a relationship with a man who has a child. And a child who will always have been your student, even if you wait. Inevitably you will step into the role of a second parent in that child’s life, and as far as I know you have yet to decide if that’s something you plan to seek out.” A thought occurs to Niles. “He isn’t married, is he?”

“ _No_.”

“Just checking. All in all, I don’t think you were prepared to find yourself in a difficult situation like this one.” Niles smiles at him. “I was prepared, though.”

Connor struggles not to glare at his brother. “Is that so?”

“Yes. This is exactly the sort of dilemma I anticipated for you. Based on your soft romantic streak.”

Niles is perhaps the only person who would say that Connor has a _soft romantic streak_ , and perhaps he only has that streak in comparison to Niles himself, but there’s substance to what Niles says about him. About the long stretch of time since his last and only genuine adult relationship; about the importance he places on his work; about the complexities of wanting to be with Hank.

“Also,” says Niles, as though it were an afterthought, “You’re extremely lonely.”

Connor scoffs at the suggestion. “I am not lonely.”

“You talk to that lizard you keep in your classroom.”

“Because the students ask me to.”

“The lizard isn’t going to care if you don’t talk to it when the children aren’t around, Connor.”

This is technically true, but Connor still can’t fathom the idea of being lonely. Loneliness is for people who don’t feel contented on their own—Connor has always preferred it. And he likes talking to the lizard. They’re friends.

But he hasn’t responded to Hank’s texts since the night of the kiss, hasn’t been able to summon the strength, and the lump in his throat aches whenever he thinks about the sudden silence in that vein of his life. Talking to Hank did seem to fill a… void. Is that the same as loneliness? A void?

“It’s an interesting theory,” he tells Niles. He pulls himself up off the floor.

“A theory,” Niles echoes. “Of course. You know how I love a good theory.”

“What are we going to do for the holidays this year?” Connor asks, plucking some lint from his jeans.

“The usual?”

“I don’t know. I guess.” _The usual_ is not an appealing phrase to Connor, as of late. “I’ll have to think about it.”

 

 

###

 

 

Hank texts Connor the morning after their adventure.

(9:13 AM) Didn’t mean for it to end like that but it was damn great while it lasted

He gets no reply. He puts that to Connor being busy with the school day, except that Hank goes to bed that night still with no response.

He’s not insecure enough to get worked up about one missed text. Sure, the whole thing where his kid interrupted their post-sexting make out session was an awkward conclusion to the night, but they’re still into each other. They just… need to be more careful.

The next time he texts Connor, a couple of days later, it’s almost midnight and he’s in bed watching a video creatively titled BEAR FUCKS TWINK XXX ANAL RIMMING CUMSHOT. He has the stupid, horny thought that he wants to share this with Connor, that maybe he’ll enjoy projecting as much as Hank is.

(11:49 PM) Can I send you something?

He waits five minutes before his impatient fingers slip and he sends the link. Like a fucking dumbass.

Ten minutes go by. Then, twenty. He gives up and gives himself a sad, unremarkable orgasm before passing out.

Not getting a response to that first text was fine, but getting ghosted on this one—he feels it the next morning, and it feels like shit.

By the third time he texts Connor, he’s annoyed, and doesn’t expect a response. It’s been several days since the porn incident and he glowers at those messages, still sitting unanswered in their chat, with no indication of whether or not Connor even read them.

(1:12 PM) Hey I got that letter about the winter festival thing and Cole wants me to go so I’m going

(1:13 PM) Just preparing you to have to see my face

Hank doesn’t know what a _winter festival_ is, but the letter tells him he needs to bring a baked good labeled with a list of ingredients. He and Cole make box brownies and Hank cuts out the nutrition facts and tapes them to the plastic wrap on top of the dish.

“We’re doing a play tonight,” Cole says, while Hank helps him with his seatbelt.

“Oh yeah? What kind of play?”

“Frosty the snowman. I’m in it.”

“What part do you play?”

“I’m a snow goblin.”

Hank starts the car, trying not to laugh. “A snow goblin? So are you scary in this Christmas play?”

“It’s not a Christmas play, it’s a winter play! Mr. Connor says it’s important not to call it a Christmas play.”

Hank glances at Cole in the rearview mirror. This sounds about right for Connor. “Why does he say that?”

“Because some kids don’t have Christmas and we don’t want them to be sad.”

“That’s very considerate, Cole,” says Hank, grinning. He’s got a good kid.

The school is bustling when Hank and Cole arrive. Apparently this winter festival thing includes all the grades, because there are whole families here, some of them with three or four kids in tow. Cole grips Hank’s hand as they go inside, and Hank is grateful for that. He forgets sometimes that not everyone has it like they do, where it’s just the two of them.

He thinks about his unanswered messages to Connor. It could be just the two of them for a long time, maybe even forever.

The main event is in the cafeteria-slash-auditorium, which is just a cafeteria with a stage in it. The principal, who’s a middle-aged black woman Hank doesn’t think he’s ever spoken to, comes on stage and requests that the students participating in the performances go to their classrooms to get ready. So Hank says goodbye to Cole and finds himself standing alone beside the refreshments table, sipping lukewarm apple cider from a paper cup.

He glances over at the spread of baked goods and recognizes the profile of a man stooping to squint at some cookies. Connor. His stomach flips, and he’s moving before he can stop himself.

“Hey—”

The man looks up, and Hank rears back.

“What happened to your face?”

“What happened to _your_ face?”

Hank realizes he’s looking into piercing blue eyes, not Connor’s warm brown ones, and that when this man stands up straight he’s got several inches on Connor. “You’re… not Connor.”

“I’m not, that’s correct,” says the man, mildly, as though he’s used to clarifying. He’s wearing a t-shirt with the name of a death rock band on it and his nails are painted black. Hank isn’t sure how he ever mistook this guy for Connor, even for a second, except that they look—their faces. Their faces are almost the same. “I’m Niles,” says the man. “How do you know my brother?” he asks, and then shoves an entire cookie in his mouth in a single bite. Definitely not Connor.

“My kid’s in his class. I’m Hank Anderson.” Hank shakes his head. “Sorry, are you two… twins?”

“No, but we get that a lot. I’m a year younger.”

A younger, taller, gother Connor. The hell. “You work at the school…?”

“I’m the librarian. What’s your child’s name?”

“Cole.”

“Ah. Cole Anderson,” says Niles. “Reading level J. He can read up to lexile level six-hundred.”

Hank stares at him.

“It means he’s at a third-grade reading level.”

“Oh. _Oh_. That’s great, I’m glad to hear that.”

Niles nods and pounds another cookie.

“Uh, do you mind me asking where Connor is?” Hank asks. “I was kinda hoping to catch him at some point tonight.”

Niles’s chewing slows. He cranes his neck, peering at Hank, peering at—his hand? His left hand? Why? Hank shoves it in his pocket. He doesn’t know what that’s about, but he knows he doesn’t like it.

Niles pulls back and shrugs. “He’s directing the winter play. You’ll have to grab him after.” The way he’s looking at Hank has changed, and Hank has no fucking clue why. He only knows that he’s suddenly uncomfortable with Niles’s eyes on him. “God,” says Niles, finally turning away. “You’re exactly his type. How funny.”

 _Jesus._ Connor’s been telling his weirdo brother about their—whatever their thing is?

And then Niles mutters something under his breath, and Hank’s heart breaks a little. Niles says, quietly, “Connor’s daddy issues strike again.”

Hank really, really wishes he hadn’t heard that.

 

 

###

 

 

Connor spends the play resisting the urge to scan the faces in the audience for one in particular. He ought to be focusing on the kids and their performance, but it’s out of his hands now, and he’s—nervous. The tone of Hank’s last texts was… different. Perhaps it’s Connor’s own fault for declining to respond, but he’d only wanted some space to think.

The crowd gives the students a standing ovation. Connor claps too. With the performance over, the festival starts to break up—some parents gather their kids to head home, others linger and chat about upcoming PTA meetings and playdates. Connor occupies himself clearing the stage, his back to the auditorium.

“Hey, Cole,” says a familiar voice. “Why don’t you go say goodbye to your friends?”

Connor winces. He retreats into the wings of the stage, where he can hide from the view of the auditorium at large, where he and Hank can have a semi-private conversation, at least. He can hear footsteps behind him. He turns around.

Hank is there, as he expected, though that is where his expectations end. He accels at predicting outcomes, typically, but Hank is not predictable. Hank drunk calls him and sends him links to pornography and climbs up on a stage to have a conversation with him.

“Hey,” says Hank. “We need to talk.”

“Okay,” says Connor. He has never let that phrase, _we need to talk_ , upset him. “Let’s talk.”

Hank takes a deep breath, like he’s ramping up to say something big, but he exhales instead. “Sorry about that video I sent you.”

Connor can’t look him in the eye, and he certainly can’t admit that he watched said video twice.The content itself didn’t do much for him—he was more intrigued to think of Hank watching it, imagining the two of them in that scenario, and feeling moved enough to share it. And the ass eating, too. He liked the ass eating.

Connor smiles stiffly. “Don’t worry about it.”

Hank nods, and for a brief moment, Connor thinks that might be all they had to talk about. He relaxes. He hadn’t noticed himself tense up.

“This is such bullshit,” says Hank, half to himself.

Ah. Connor is tense again. “What is?”

“ _This_.” Hank gestures between them. “Can I just—I think you need to know. I’m not here to help you get back at your shitty dad.”

“What?” Connor feels like he’s sinking into the stage. “Why would you think that?”

“I talked to your brother—” _Niles_. Connor is too shocked to be angry with him, in the moment; that will come later. Hank steps closer, lowers his voice. “I’m not gonna fuck the daddy issues out of you.”

“I’m not asking you to,” says Connor, in a stage whisper. “I told you, I have romantic feelings for you—”

“And you know, I think you really believe that. But look at us, kid.” The return of the nickname hurts. “I’m twenty years older than you and you stopped responding to my texts the second you got a look at what it would be like if we were actually together.” Hank is tearing into him now. Connor shuts down. “You’re—you _are_ a fucking kid, okay? You can call yourself a grown-up all you want, but you can’t handle the fact that I have a kid, you can’t handle the fact that I had a wife. You can’t handle the fact that I’m not the person you were cruising for on that stupid app.”

“This is directly contrary to what I’ve said,” says Connor, his chest tight. “You’re just insecure.”

“So what if I am?” Hank shoots back, a little too loud. “I’m fifty-three years old, I’m a recovering alcoholic with high cholesterol, and I don’t have any fucking money. Of course I’m insecure.” He starts to turn away, shoving a hand through his hair. “I wish you’d just left me the hell alone.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Connor asks quietly.

“Breaking up with you? Are you serious?” Hank looks back at him, brow furrowed. “When were we ever—” He freezes mid-sentence to stare at something over Connor’s shoulder.

Connor turns and sees Amanda standing there, watching them argue. He is too shell-shocked to be unnerved by this development. It only seems… fitting.

“Principal Amanda,” he says calmly. He can’t summon another affectation.

“Jesus Christ,” Hank mutters.

“Is everything all right here?” Amanda asks, though Connor can tell from the tight line of her mouth that she’s heard enough to answer her own question.

“I gotta go,” Hank announces. “Cole’s waiting for me.” Connor wishes he could say something—anything—to keep Hank from leaving, but he can’t, not with Amanda here, and he doesn’t know how to make his eyes do the pleading for him.

Amanda nods. “Drive safely, Mr. Anderson.”

Hank takes off without another word, leaving Connor alone with his principal. With his boss.

“I think we need to have a conversation,” she says. “But I also sense that now is not the best moment for that.”

“Maybe not,” Connor manages, unable to look her in the eye.

She gives him a nod. “I will reach out to you in the coming weeks.” He listens to her heels clicking away.

Then he goes to find Niles.

 

 

###

 

 

Connor locates his brother in the hallway just outside the library, where Niles is trying to hang a poster featuring common grammatical errors and their solutions.

“What did you _say_?” Connor demands, and he starts slapping Niles’s upper arm with both hands. It’s how they used to fight as kids and it comes back to Connor naturally. Niles doesn’t defend himself except to shrink away.

“What did I say—”

“To Hank! What did you say to Hank!”

“Oh, your daddy?”

Connor slams his foot down on Niles’s with all the strength he can muster.

“Hey, _ow_.”

“He broke up with me because of what you said, Niles!”

The annoyance dies on Niles’s face. “You’re kidding.”

“Just tell me what you said to him.”

“I made a joke. I think my exact words were, ‘Connor’s daddy issues strike again’—”

“Oh,” says Connor, stepping back. No wonder Hank had used that phrase.

Niles shakes his head. “Clearly a joke. If he took it that seriously, he must have already had his doubts about your affection for him.”

“Why would he have doubts when I’ve only told him how much I like him?”

Niles shrugs. He is not the best person for Connor to talk to about this—of the two of them, Connor is supposed to be the people person. “Many people choose contrarian paths, even with the evidence is directly in front of them. Perhaps it’s in human nature.”

Somehow Connor doesn’t feel like telling Hank that his behavior is _contrary to the evidence_ will help the situation. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“I got the impression from our previous conversation that you weren’t ready to engage in a serious relationship with him, anyway.”

Connor doesn’t know if he’d go so far as to call himself ‘not ready,’ but there were certainly obstacles to him comfortably being with Hank. Something _did_ change after the night of their kiss. There were things he hadn’t considered.

But that doesn’t make Hank right. It doesn’t make everything that Connor feels and everything that’s happened between them suddenly meaningless. He still has that lump in his throat.

“Amanda heard us arguing,” he tells Niles.

“What about ‘I won’t let that happen’?”

“He came up to me and started talking. I didn’t know how to stop it.”

Niles gives him a long look.

“What?”

“Oh, just thinking about how you always have everything figured out, and somehow this sloppy old man has managed to come into your life and ruin your plans entirely.”

“He’s not sloppy, he’s gruff,” Connor says, though his will to argue has weakened. Niles rolls his eyes. “She won’t fire me, will she?”

Niles shakes his head. “A slap on the wrist, likely. But worse if you keep doing it.”

Connor smiles weakly. “I don’t think I have to worry about that.”

“It’s just as well,” says Niles, returning to his grammar poster. “Would you really want to be with someone who didn’t like himself enough to believe that you could like him, too?”

 

 

###

 

 

By the time Connor has his conversation with Amanda, he’s had time to think about what happened.

“You realize the priority in this situation is Cole Anderson,” she tells him.

“Yes.” He does realize. He realizes this to a degree where it makes him feel ill.

“It can be extremely difficult for children to watch the adults in their lives exit a relationship,” she says. “Because you are an intrinsic part of Cole’s life, witnessing the dissolution of a relationship between you and Mr. Anderson would be akin to him watching his parents get divorced. You realize this.”

“Yes.” He wants to add that Cole hasn’t seen anything, that Cole doesn’t know, but Amanda has yet to accuse him of anything and he doesn’t want to incriminate himself.

“I am broaching the topic as a precautionary measure. You are a good teacher, Connor. This is a refresher course. I don’t believe I’m saying anything you don’t already know, but I would hate to see you lose track of something so essential as the mental welfare of a student.”

“Yes,” Connor says again. He wants her to stop talking. He feels foolish, as foolish as he can ever remember feeling. To think that he would need reminding of these things—to think that he would let himself end up in a situation where he has to listen to his boss do that reminding, even though he knows the advice is irrelevant now. Even though he knows that it’s over.

“Very well. I trust that you will ascribe to these standards in the future.” Amanda reaches for the schedule book in front of her. “You may go.”

As he leaves, it occurs to him that the conversation between him and Amanda could’ve been avoided if Hank had never approached him at the winter festival. In fact, it could’ve been doubly avoided if Hank had never approached him at all.

A strange feeling bubbles in Connor’s stomach; it takes him a moment to name it, this radical warmth: anger.

 

 

###

 

 

It’s funny to think there was a time in Hank’s life when he actually enjoyed the holidays.

Now he puts his effort into finding the toys that Cole wants, into decorating the tree just as Cole requests, into making the meals Cole finds delicious. Centering the holidays around his son helps him forget that he used to have help doing all this, and that he’s got three unanswered voicemails from Cole’s principal on his phone, asking him to come in for a “chat.”

He thought the second Christmas alone might be better than the first, and it is, but only marginally. The winter festival hangs over his head like a dark cloud. He knows he’ll get over it eventually, that his heart will mend or whatever it is that hearts do, but he also knows that it won’t be easy to put that heart in another person’s hands. Every time a heart breaks, it’s a little more fragile, it’s a little scarier to give it away again.

On Christmas Eve, Cole watches _Elf_ in the living room while Hank attempts to roast a turkey. It’s going… fine. It should be edible, if dry. He knows that as long as the mashed potatoes have cheese and garlic in them, Cole won’t care how the turkey tastes.

His phone lights up on the kitchen island, and he twists his neck to check the notification. To see a name he hasn’t seen there in weeks. It’s a text from Connor.

(5:47 PM) _Are you at home?_

He wishes he could ignore that, but it sounds important.

(5:48 PM) Yeah?

The doorbell rings two fucking minutes later. What the fuck.

There’s Connor, standing on Hank’s front step, wearing a holiday sweater under his coat. His breath is white on the air when he says, “Hello.”

Hank stands there open-mouthed, then turns to Cole on the couch. “Hey, bug, can you take Sumo out into the backyard? I think he’s gotta go.”

Cole nods and chases the puppy out through the kitchen.

“What are you doing here, Con? It’s Christmas Eve.”

“I know. I’m not religious so that means very little to me.”

Hank sighs. “You wanna come in?”

“No.”

“It’s ten below out there.”

“I’m fine.”

At least this isn’t a booty call. Hank raises his eyebrows and waits for Connor to start talking.

“Our conversation last week ended abruptly. I’ve realized I have a few more things I’d like to say to you, Hank.”

“Oh, yeah?” says Hank, borderline combative. He leans on the doorframe.

“Yes.” Connor sticks out his chin and takes a deep breath. “I came here to tell you that you’ve treated me unfairly. You judged me based on someone else’s perception of our relationship and willfully misinterpreted my hesitation, rather than choosing to come to me with your concerns. You made assumptions about my relationship with my father, which quite frankly you know nothing about and therefore have no right to speak on. You were mean to me.”

Hank’s mouth is hanging open again.

Connor takes another breath—there’s _more_? “I never misrepresented how I felt about you. You chose to see what you wanted to see in my affection. I don’t know why you would do that rather than accepting my feelings, but I do know one thing—that it’s your loss. I cared about you, and _you_ are the one who messed it up.”

And thus the last shred of Hank’s smugness is obliterated. “Connor,” he says, and reaches out, but Connor steps back.

“Don’t touch me.” Jesus. _Fuck_. “You hurt me very badly, and I want you to feel bad about it. I hope it hurts.”

“Oh, come on, you know it does.”

Connor’s eyes close for a half-second. “Good.” He opens them again and smiles. It’s been a while since one of Connor’s smiles hurt him like that. “Merry Christmas, Hank.”

Then he turns his back on Hank and walks away. Hank stands there with the door open until long after Connor’s car has disappeared, letting the cold seep in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god sorry but i swear i'll fix it
> 
> also, an anon asked me to add symbols between sections, so i did that for this one and i will go back and do it for previous chapters!


	6. try harder

With the new year comes more cold weather. A Michigan winter is enough to take the heat out of anything, even Hank Anderson’s anger.

Now that he’s not angry, he doesn’t know what to be except broken. He tries to focus on Cole, on Cole’s grades and his interests and making his second grade the best it can be, like his father never rolled the dice and nearly fucked it up.

He realizes he’s getting a glimpse of what it’s like to live with hyperthymesia, because he can remember every word Connor said to him on Christmas Eve. They’ve developed an unshakable rhythm in his head, those words, repeating over and over, until he almost gets used to it and stops noticing and they goes away. Then he thinks, _oh, I got rid of them_ , which reminds him that they existed to begin with, and now he’s thinking about them again.

Hank is man enough to admit when he’s wrong.

He knows he fucked up. He doesn’t really appreciate the abrupt time and place of Connor’s accusation, but there was a lot of truth in what he said. Hank acted rashly, starting an argument in Connor’s place of work based on a snide remark from someone who’s barely involved. He comes to peace with that truth easily enough.

He struggles more thinking about what to do next. There is a weight on his chest, and he knows only talking to Connor can lift it. But there’s this question of whether or not he deserves that conversation, of whether Connor will even give it to him. He might be too petty for that, too much of a stupid kid.

Okay, maybe Hank’s a little angry still. Nothing they couldn’t solve with a bottle whiskey and a handful of condoms and a long afternoon in a hotel room.

 _No_ , no whiskey. Just condoms and a room. No whiskey, not anymore.

The letters come home about field trips, report cards, guidelines for multicultural night. There is one about a mid-year parent-teacher conference. Hank stares at it for a long time.

They see Connor in the grocery a few days later. It’s not the first time he’s seen Connor since Christmas Eve—he gets glimpses every time he drops Cole off at school—but it’s the first time they’ve had to interact. And they do have to interact, because Cole is with him, and he hollers when he sees Connor in the cereal aisle.

“Hi, Cole.”

“Are you going to take the cereal to school to eat?” Cole asks, hanging off Connor’s arm.

“No, I’m going to take it home.”

Hank can tell Connor hasn’t noticed him yet, so he clears his throat and says, “He doesn’t live at the school, Cole. I’ve told you that before.”

Connor looks up and sees him standing there with his cart full of groceries, smiling a big goofy try-hard smile. Connor blinks rapidly. He doesn’t have a cart himself, just a basket hooked on his arm. Hank notes that he’s buying some crunchy granola low-fat nonsense cereal that Hank’s doctor would probably love him to eat.

It sucks, what happened. Connor could’ve been… good for him.

Cole’s eyes go big. “Mr. Connor, do you have a house too?”

“No, I have an apartment.”

“Where do you go outside to play?”

Hank laughs, and Connor smiles. “I find places to play.”

“You’ve been to our house,” says Cole, remembering.

Hank dies. Just a little bit.

Connor continues smiling at Cole. “I have, that’s true.”

“Are you going to come over again?”

“Hey, Cole,” Hank interjects. “You wanna go pick out some pop? I’ll buy it for you.”

The promise of a sugary drink distracts Cole from interrogating Connor, and he sprints toward the end-cap advertising a new flavor of grape something-or-other.

Unfortunately, Cole’s departure leaves Hank alone with Connor. He wears a sweater, as per usual, but without the collared shirt and tie underneath. The cut of his torso could give Hank a heart attack, probably. He has the pictures on his phone still—couldn’t bring himself to delete them, dirty old man—but seeing him in person is always different. Worse. Harder.

A scene flashes through Hank’s head: he pushes Connor up against the wall of cereal boxes and kisses him; he gets down on his knees and begs to show Connor how sorry he is, how much he cares and how deeply he wants him; and Hank fucks him right there in the grocery aisle, boxes of cereal flying everywhere. In this extremely realistic scenario, Hank fucks Connor so good the pain goes away, for both of them. Hank just wants another shot at it. He wishes he could say, _hey, I know I said I couldn’t fuck the daddy issues out of you, but I can try._

“Did you get the letter about the parent-teacher conference?”

“Yup,” says Hank, trying his best not to look like he was just thinking about railing Connor in a grocery aisle.

“So I’ll see you then. Don’t forget to get a babysitter.”

Hank nods, though it’s a perfunctory gesture. He feels stupid, impotent. There are things he wants to say and none of them are coming to him. He’s getting nothing from Connor, not an ounce of emotion, not even anger. It doesn’t seem right—he’d almost rather be glared at. Then he’d know where he stands, at least.

They stand there for too long saying nothing, awkward. Hank clicks his tongue absently and Connor seems to grow… tired. Is that what that look is? Hank can’t put his finger on it, so it might as well be nothing.

Connor opens his mouth like he’s getting ready to speak. Hank is on tenterhooks, his heart pounding at the thought that Connor might not be totally done with him, not yet.

But Connor’s mouth snaps shut, and he says nothing. He puts his head down and walks past Hank, out of the aisle. Hank flops forward over his cart, exhaling sharply, and heads off to find Cole.

 

 

###

 

 

 

Connor has been well. He says that to acquaintances who ask how he’s doing— _I’m well, thank you_. It is the polite, grammatically correct thing to reply.

Markus goes to visit his father and step-brother for the holidays, meaning Connor is alone in the apartment for most of the winter vacation, apart from an evening he and Niles spend playing chess and drinking wine and arguing about Leonard Bernstein’s body of work.

When Niles is gone, he talks to the class lizard if he has something he needs to say. The children have finally decided that the lizard’s name is Skateboard McFortnite.

Skateboard McFortnite hears a lot about Hank. Connor repeats his Christmas Eve speech to Skateboard. He looks for flaws in what he said that night, anything to explain the way he is feeling. He thought, logically, that expressing his anger with Hank and cutting things off would solve the problem. Maybe he wouldn’t stop being angry, but he could at least stop feeling shafted and move on with his life. And yet here he is, just as frustrated and lonely as he was before. Things haven’t changed, not in any major indentifiable way; he isn’t worse, he isn’t better. He is fine. He is _well_.

Skateboard doesn’t offer any advice. He’s lucky if he can get her to blink at him. And he can’t go to Niles, because frankly he’s not ready to talk to Niles about Hank yet. He won’t be ready for that for a while.

Connor struggles with the idea that his brilliant decision to indite Hank on a major holiday may have backfired. He struggles with the the idea that it may not have been such a brilliant decision at all. He’s not used to making mistakes—he’s even less used to admitting he made them.

He almost says as much to Hank in the grocery store. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but out of order—he rehearsed his inditement again and again in his head, making a bulleted list of offenses to include. He wasn’t prepared to see Hank in the cereal aisle that day. His thoughts were still unorganized.

The parent-teacher conference is another matter.

Connor makes sure to schedule Hank as his last appointment of the evening, at nine o’clock. He doesn’t know what will come of their meeting and he doesn’t want another parent to get a distracted, emotionally compromised version of him for their meeting. As he goes through the other conferences of the evening, he notes he is distracted and inefficient anyway, so this may have been a wrong decision. He can add it to his growing count.

He has fifteen minutes before Hank’s conference, and he occupies himself cutting out shapes from construction paper for a class project he’s planning. Guiding the scissors to cut perfectly along the stenciled lines provides him with an unusual zen. He forgets, for two quiet minutes, what he’s about to do.

There’s a knock at the classroom door.

He can see Hank peeking at him through the window. The doorknob jiggles—the auto-lock must’ve gotten pushed when the last parents left. Connor sets aside his scissors and paper shapes and goes to let Hank in.

“Hey,” says Hank, on the other side of the glass.

He doesn’t linger on the moment, doesn’t give himself an opportunity to think or feel something he’ll regret. He pops the door open and goes right back to his seat, not meeting Hank’s eye. He hasn’t practiced this scenario without a desk between them, and he doesn’t want to remove an essential variable.

They sit in the same spots where they sat back in September, the second time they met. Connor at his desk, hands folded in front of him, Hank in the chair directly opposite. February has brought changes: Hank’s beard is trimmed, and he wears his hair combed back, out of his face, which would logically necessitate some kind of hair product. Connor tries not to smile at the thought of Hank applying hair gel in preparation for their meeting.

For a long time, longer than is appropriate, nothing is said. Connor knows that Hank is taking him in, just like he’s doing for Hank. It’s been six weeks since the winter festival, and over a month since Christmas Eve. The kiss was the last time they were alone, and that had been interrupted. It’s amazing how much has happened between them in a handful of private moments—it gives Connor a sense that tonight, too, will be significant.

But they have business, too. “So. Cole,” says Connor, loudly.

Hank nods. “Cole. Yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

Connor starts to talk about Cole. He talks about Cole’s grades, areas for improvement, about his adjustment to the new school and his talent for making friends, about his multiplication tables. He doesn’t stop to let Hank interject, but Hank keeps nodding along, so he supposes they’re both just trying to get through this part.

After Connor has talked for a while, Hank says, “Is there anything else?”

“That’s all.”

“Right,” says Hank, shuffling through the report Connor gave him. “Okay.”

“About Cole. That’s all about Cole, I meant,” says Connor.

Hank lowers the paper. The expression on his face—it’s a grimace, with a hint of a smile. It confuses Connor. “I figured you might have something else to say to me.”

Connor swallows hard. Whatever Hank is expecting, he hopes he can deliver—or perhaps he shouldn’t hope to please Hank, considering the circumstances. Perhaps he should focus on saying what he needs to say and, Hank be damned! Only he did that once before and it landed him in this predicament of having to issue a retraction. He would like to stop issuing retractions.

“I got some of my own stuff I was hoping to put out there, too, actually,” says Hank, taking advantage of Connor’s silence. “Do you wanna go first?”

“Yes… I think I’d like to.”

Connor is afraid of what Hank will say to him—the last time Hank had things to say to him, he experienced the emotional equivalent of a sucker punch. Perhaps he can persuade Hank to soften the blow if he apologizes first.

“I wanted to say that I didn’t mean to ruin your Christmas.” Connor is staring at the wood grain of his desk, but he hears Hank sigh. “I won’t apologize for standing up for myself, because—the things you said to me—they were extremely hurtful. But the time and place I chose, I did that because…” He manages to look up at Hank. “I wanted it to hurt. I teach my students that two wrongs don’t make a right, and I committed a second wrong.”

“Hey, you had every right to say that shit to me.”

Connor stalls at how vehemently Hank makes this declaration. He almost—is upset that Connor is apologizing? “Not on a holiday, with your son there.”

Hank sits back in his chair, shaking his head. “It’s hard for me to see how I didn’t fucking deserve it, honestly.”

“Cole didn’t.”

“Yeah, that’s—sure, but he got the plastic truck he wanted, so he had a great Christmas. He had no idea.”

“That’s… I’m glad to hear it,” says Connor.

Hank sits forward again. “Is it my turn?”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry, Connor.” He looks Connor right in the eye when he says it, and the intensity of that stare might as well be tangible. It holds Connor’s gaze like rubber cement. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m sorry I let your stupid brother’s stupid shitty joke get to me. I’m sorry I did it where you work. I’m sorry I was too stupid to see how lucky I got with you.”

Connor’s hands, too, might as well be glued in place. His arms and legs are stiff, heavy.

Hank, conversely, grows more animated as he pushes forward. He talks with his hands. “And I’m serious, you saying that shit, I needed to hear it. You’re not a kid, you get to make your own choices. And maybe it was hard for me to believe that—someone like you could be interested in me, legitimately interested in me, but I could’ve fucking told you I was feeling that way, you know? It’s not an excuse for what I said to you. There are no excuses for what I said to you.”

Hank has to pause for breath; this is Connor’s opportunity to slip back into the conversation. “I didn’t text you back because seeing you and Cole talking about your wife frightened me.”

Hank frowns at him, the sudden topic shift pausing his rant. “Scared... Why?”

“Because I saw how much you both love her, and how you miss her, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t quite figure out my place in that.” Connor tilts his head to the side. “And at the same time, I could feel myself falling in love with you. I had trouble imagining that you would reciprocate to the same… degree.”

Hank heaves a massive sigh, and puts his head in his hands. “Con.”

“I should have told you.”

“I really wish you had, yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. I’m really fucking sorry.”

“I didn’t know it would…” Connor tries to smile, like that might soften the feeling of grief that radiates from Hank. He was foolish to be scared of what Hank might say, he now realizes. Maybe Hank should be afraid of him instead. Connor can’t finish his sentence, except to say again, “Sorry.”

“So,” says Hank gruffly, lifting his head. “Did you?”

“Did I…?”

Hank leans on the front of Connor’s desk. Again with that stare, compelling Connor to meet it. “Did you fall in love with me?”

Connor’s heart pounds against his ribs. He doesn’t speak, because he’s forgotten how, because he knows the color rising in his cheeks will be talking for him anyway.

Hank’s jaw tightens. A muscle in his neck flinches. “So you were in love with me, and then I said all that—dumb shit—and hurt you in a completely unforgivable way. That’s—” Hank puts his head down on the desk. “Great,” says his muffled voice. “Fucking fantastic.”

Hank stays like that for several seconds, half-collapsed on Connor’s desk, a tangle of arms and mussed grey hair. Connor’s hand moves of its own accord to brush back a strand. His own voice sounds weak and airy in his ears. “I think completely unforgivable might be an overstatement.”

Slowly, as if laboring to believe what he’s just heard, Hank raises his head. His mouth is hanging open again, and with his now-messy hair he looks… goofy. Connor feels himself smile.

“Has anyone ever told you,” says Hank, “that you’re fucking incredible?”

Connor leans forward on the desk, mirroring Hank. “Not in those exact words.”

Hank guffaws, Connor keeps smiling. This moment, sitting here laughing and smiling with Hank, hits Connor like cool water against a burn. Suddenly everything is just _better_.

He wants to try expressing this to Hank. He tries, “I missed you.”

Conor feels Hank scanning him after he says this, but he can’t think why. He can’t figure out what calculation is happening in Hank’s head until Hank is leaning forward and kissing him. At that point he’s developed an educated guess.

It is a soft, gentle, close-mouthed kiss given at an awkward angle, what with the large desk between them, and lasts only a second.

“Was that okay?” Hank murmurs.

Connor has returned to the night of their first kiss, to being pressed against a door, to feeling himself melt at touch. He has thought of that moment maybe a thousand times since, how much it gave him, how much more he wanted to take.“No,” he says.

Hank’s eyes go wide, but before he can say anything, before he can apologize, Connor is getting up—he is climbing over his desk—he is closing the space between them. He slips on a construction paper shape and nearly falls on his face, but he ignores it, he keeps going. Hank gets to his feet, a normal reaction when someone launches themselves in your direction. He catches Connor in his arms, and Connor catches his mouth against Hank’s, holding him by the collar of his shirt and kissing him forcefully.

He puts his tongue in Hank’s mouth like Hank did to him that first night they kissed, and he hears Hank groan, and he feels thick arms holding him, pulling him against Hank’s body. He feels Hank’s hand slide up his back, between his shoulder blades, into the hair on the back of his head. He wants Hank to tighten his fingers and pull, but he doesn’t know how to communicate that, not yet.

Connor kisses Hank until they are both out of air, so they’re panting when they finally part. Connor presses his face into Hank’s shoulder.

“Holy shit,” Hank says, leaning into Connor’s neck. The way his breath feels on Connor’s skin makes Connor _whine_. “Holy _shit_ ,” Hank says again. His hands move to Connor’s ass and squeeze. A familiar heat surges in Connor’s—in his everywhere, but it pools in his hips.

Hank drags Connor’s face up by the chin and kisses him again, knocking Connor off-balance, so they stumble into the desk and it squeaks against the floor. Hank touches him like he’s starved of it, like he might never get the chance again, like he’s been thinking about it every night for months, because he has, and Connor’s been thinking about it too. He touches Connor’s back, his arms, his chest. He slides his hands up Connor’s thighs and grabs his ass again. He moves around to the front of Connor’s hips, and begins undoing his belt.

Connor was already halfway to an erection, and the second Hank’s fingers brush the zipper of his jeans, he’s done, he’s fully hard. Hank starts to kiss his neck and the sensation makes Connor throw back his head, to expose himself more, to ask Hank to keep going. He grips the edge of his desk in order to stay upright. It’s as though every wall between them has come crashing down in one violent instant, and now there’s nothing to keep them from approaching each other at maximum velocity. That’s what this is: the hasty, insatitable, desperate release of months of longing. Any gaps between them become vacuums, pulling them closer together. Every part of Connor is hot to the touch, but it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t burn—it feels good. He feels _alive_.

Hank returns to Connor’s mouth, kisses him briefly, and mutters against his lips, “Christ, Con, please let me fuck you.”

 _Let me fuck you_. God, Connor wants it, he wants Hank bad and he’s waited so long and now he can feel Hank’s dick pressing against his inner thigh, with only a few layers of fabric there to keep him from touching it, from putting it in his mouth. Only a few layer of fabric from letting Hank fuck him until he’s numb from the waist down and he can’t walk straight tomorrow, like he’s been fantasizing about for months.

He knows this is a bad idea, logically. The voice in the back of his head does pipe up to say, _don’t be silly!_ And there are many reasons for that, many problems around letting Hank fuck him until he’s numb from the waist down and he can’t walk straight tomorrow, many he can’t solve in the moment. But there is one particular problem that stands out right now, and it’s a fixable one, in theory. “Not here,” Connor manages, around a gasp, because Hank has untucked his shirt and reached beneath the fabric to tweak one of Connor’s nipples. “Somewhere else.”

“Closet?”

“Not in the school. Please.”

Hank pulls back to look him in the eye. His lips are wet and swollen, and the top button of his shirt is undone, probably from when Connor grabbed him. “My car’s in the lot outside.”

Him and Hank in the back of Hank’s car. Everything he’s done with Hank has already exceeded his previous exploits in its… adventurousness. That trend doesn’t seem to be letting up.

Connor takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

 

 

###

 

 

 

When he suggested the car, Hank kind of thought they’d immediately rush out there and get to it, so he’s antsy while Connor shuts off the lights and locks his classroom door. He doesn’t hurry on his way to the car, either, because he’s got a massive fucking erection that _Hank gave him_ and can barely walk, which is great except that even after waiting for months, Hank can’t wait an extra second. He seriously considers throwing Connor over his shoulder and carrying him out to the parking lot, except they’re in a hallway full of security cameras. He decides absently that he’ll get to do that, one day—to carry Connor to bed.

There are only two cars in the parking lot at nine-thirty on a school night. One’s Hank’s, one’s Connor’s. Hank unlocks the trunk of his SUV and pushes down the backseats. It’s not a king-sized bed, but it’ll do for their purposes.

Connor is still standing awkwardly outside the car while Hank climbs into the front to turn on the ignition and get the heat going. He taps on the window to get Connor’s attention, and grins when he starts. Hank gestures to the back of the car, for him to get inside. Connor nods.

Hank’s had condoms and lube in the glove compartment of his car since he was twenty, though he never ended up needing them until much later in life. One of those men who gets better with age, or something. Or gets better _at_ it with age, anyway.

Connor settles into the back, trying to pull the trunk door closed from the inside; Hank crawls over and helps him. It’s not exactly warm in the car yet, but it’s better than it is outside. Neither of them is feeling the chill right now.

They sit in the back of the car for a moment looking at each other. Hank recognizes this moment, when the move from the living room to the bedroom happens and you have to pick up where you left off. He can’t see Connor’s face as clearly as he could in the classroom—it’s darker here, the street light coming through the car windows in patches—so he can’t tell if Connor remains interested.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Then c’mere.”

Connor crawls over to him, sitting between his knees. Hank pushes Connor’s coat off his shoulders and then shrugs off his own big parka, letting it fall under them, where it might cushion one of them later. Then he goes for Connor’s sweater and shirt, pulling them up and off in the same motion. The white skin of Connor’s torso glows against the dark. He can feel Connor watching him as he reaches between them and runs his palm down the center of Connor’s chest, from his collarbones to his belly button. He’s thought about how that skin would feel—so many times now, and here he is in the back of his car, finally getting to see for himself. It’s soft. Connor has a little bit of body hair under his belly button that Hank couldn’t see in the pictures.

Hank dips forward and presses his mouth to Connor’s clavicle, and Connor makes a tiny sharp sound. It encourages Hank to keep going, kissing down his chest, pulling him onto his lap. He plants a kiss between Connor’s pectorals and then flips their position, laying Connor on the bed of the SUV. This way he can keep moving down Connor’s body, he can keep his mouth moving down Connor’s body. Connor’s stomach twitches when Hank kisses it—ticklish—Hank grins against his skin and gets to work tugging off Connor’s jeans.

Connor is wearing the same kind of underwear he wore in the photos he sent. Hank has to take a moment upon seeing this; the rush of blood to his cock overpowers him.

“What?” says Connor, in a whisper, probably wondering why Hank has stopped in the middle of undressing him to stare at his boxer briefs.

“Nothing.”

The first time he puts his mouth on Connor’s dick, it has to be through the fabric of that underwear. Has to be. Hank’s thought about too many times, and this night, this thing they’re doing, it’s their fantasties come to life. So Hank bends over and puts his tongue against the outline of Connor’s dick in his underwear.

Connor yelps. It’s an appetizing sound.

Hank tongues him through the fabric. Connor’s hips flinch even at this light, indirect touching, and a stuttered breath makes his ribs shake—it’s got Hank wondering what he’s going to be like when Hank’s actually inside him, if he trembles at a little over-the-clothes rutting. Incredible, probably.

Hank runs a hand up and down the inside of Connor’s thigh while he continues wetting the fabric against Connor’s dick. There’s movement above Hank, and he glances up. Connor has propped himself up on his elbows to get a better look at what Hank’s doing, and he watches with parted lips as Hank hooks a thumb into the elastic of his boxer briefs and tugs them down—just a little, a couple of inches, a tease, enough to expose the curve of the pelvic bone. Connor is riveted.

Hank kisses that divot inside Connor’s hipbone, softly at first, and them he gives it a little nip. Connor makes a sound, not one Hank immediately understands as positive or negative, so he looks up again. Connor’s hair has started to fall out of its hold, curtaining his brow. He shakes it from his eyes when he nods for Hank to continue.

Hank’s done with the underwear, he decides. He frees Connor’s cock from the elastic, then slides the boxer briefs off Connor’s hips and to his knees, then gets out of the way so Connor can kick them away. Hank pauses for a second and hangs over Connor’s long, narrow frame, admiring his handiwork, the leaking erection and the stark nakedness, exposed in the back of Hank’s car, in the parking lot of a goddamn elementary school.

He returns to the smooth white interiors of Connor’s thighs, running his palms up and down, pausing to press his thumb against a mole on the upper right one. He should’ve anticipated that Connor would have more than just the moles he could see, but find new ones is like stumbling on buried treasure, still. Connor lets his head fall back again, snugging into the plush lining of Hank’s coat, and sighs warmly. Hank knew that coat would come in handy.

Hank’s not a world reknowned expert in sucking dick, having done it three times in his life, but he knows how he likes it when he’s on the receiving end, and he wants Connor to like it. It’s not light enough in the car for Hank to see color properly, but he can tell Connor is hard to the point of redness, and there are similar flushed patches on his cheeks and neck and chest. 

Hank grips the base of Connor’s cock and crouches toward his hips. He starts slow, licking a stripe from the base to the tip, where he gathers the accumulated precum with his tongue. He repeats this movement a few more times—eventually he lathes his tongue along the bottom of Connor’s dick, and Connor reacts with a tiny hiss. Hank tries that one again; Connor makes a sound like a _hmmph._ Hank has the fleeting thought that if he forgets a single detail of this night, he’ll never forgive himself. He’s got to try and burn it in his brain, the details, the sounds. Connor doesn’t know how lucky he is that he gets to carry nights like this around with him in technicolor.

He takes Connor completely in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks. Connor’s not especially big, so it’s easy enough to swallow his full length, Hank barely even chokes on him. He repeats this motion too—taking Connor’s length all the way to back of his throat, slowly backing off, taking it again. If it were Hank in Connor’s position, that’d drive him crazy, it’d have him swearing. When Hank pulls off and there’s that awful, amazing _schlurp_ of a noise, his favorite, he finds that Connor is breathing heavily, hiding his face in his elbow.

Hank brushes Connor’s knee. “Everything okay?”

“Mmhmm,” Connor says, without moving.

Hank climbs up Connor’s body and hangs over him. Connor peeks out at him from behind his elbow. Hank chuckles.

He reaches down and links Connor’s hand with his own; now he can pull Connor’s arm away from his face, freeing up his mouth to be kissed, which Hank does. He drags Connor’s bottom lip through his teeth and hears himself grunt under his breath. While they’re making out, Connor’s free hand starts working on the buttons of Hank’s shirt. Hank can’t blame him—Hank is still fully clothed and Connor completely naked, apart from his socks, so they ought to even those scales, just a little.

He sits up to make Connor’s work easier, resting on his knees. Connor gets Hank’s shirt open enough to discover he’s wearing an undershirt, the visible annoyance on his face making Hank laugh. Hank helps him out, because he’s a nice guy and all that, by shrugging off his button-down and pulling the t-shirt off. He’s too big to be undressing in the back of a car and in the process he bangs his head on the roof, and Connor laughs.

The sound of Connor laughing derails Hank’s—it derails everything, for a second. All Hank can do is sit there, shirtless, staring at the smile on Connor’s face, watching his expression fade into confusion as to why Hank has suddenly stopped.

“What’s wrong?” says Connor, his voice small.

Hank squeezes his eyes shut briefly, then shakes his head. “I just—I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh?”

“Oh.” He can tell this doesn’t clear much up for Connor. “I… sorry.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry. Nothing to be sorry about.”

Connor nods weakly, his lip between his teeth.

Hank sighs, and starts to undo his belt. “You’ve got a dorky little laugh, you know that?”

“Dorky…”

“Yeah. ‘Cause you’re a dork.”

Connor squints at him for a long moment, and then—he sticks his tongue out, and Hank is laughing again.

“Are you even gonna take off your socks?”

“No,” Connor pouts. “I don’t want my feet to get cold.”

Connor sits up, his tongue still out, and plants a kiss in the center of Hank’s chest. Hank—isn’t used to being on the receiving end of chest kisses. He doesn’t get a whole lot of love in that area usually, but Connor has no hestiation. Connor starts moving down the curve of Hank’s belly, and gives him a little push, encouraging him to sit back and provide full access to his lap. Hank obliges—he got so caught up blowing Connor, he’d forgotten about the inevitability of Connor blowing him, and boy, is he remembering it right now. He’s had a couple of excruciatingly detailed wet dreams about Connor blowing him, and one of them—one of them actually did take place in his car? Holy shit. He’s literally living the dream right now.

In a pretty fucking great role reversal, Connor doesn’t have the same patience Hank did around this process. Connor doesn’t even take off Hank’s pants; he gets the fly undone and pushes Hank’s boxers down enough to free his dick. Hank’s hard, though not as hard as he could be—not as hard as he’s going to be once Connor is done with him, he guesses.

Connor sighs contentedly at the mere sight of Hank’s dick, the same way Hank imagines he’d sigh upon coming home to a clean house, or after the first sip of an excellent new wine. Makes Hank think about how many times over the past few months Connor has made himself come imagining Hank’s dick in his mouth or his ass. He’d like to think it’s a lot, and the absolute reverence with which Connor touches him would support that guess.

This is another one of those sights Hank has to memorize: Connor, on his knees, bending over to guide Hank’s cock to his lips. He lays his tongue against the tip and—and guides it in a careful circle around Hank’s foreskin. An instant, heady sensation shoots up Hank’s dick. He grunts, and Connor looks up at him, Connor looks him right in the eye. He does the circle motion again.

“Fuck.” The word escapes Hank with the force of a bullet. He sees the corners of Connor’s lips turn up, which just makes it worse, that Connor is doing this on purpose. Torturing him. He decides he wants to fuck Connor’s mouth, real bad, or at least make him choke a little. He’s getting harder, so he could really do it now.

Connor keeps licking at his dick, even though he has to know how Hank wants his mouth. Hank debates just telling him to get the fuck on with it, maybe even guiding his head in the right direction, maybe even grabbing him by his hair. There’s torque building in Hank’s hips that needs somewhere to go.

Connor’s eyes flicker back up to Hank, who can hear himself growling under his breath. Maybe Connor finally gets the message that he’s not doing enough, or maybe he decides to stop being a tease. Doesn’t really matter to Hank why Connor puts Hank’s cock in his mouth, just that he does it. And when he does, _holy shit_. He’s warm, wet, soft, smooth. Hank’s head falls back. Connor slides his lips down Hank’s cock, taking in more. He’s going slow, so Hank tries not to rush him by thrusting, but it’s a hard impulse to control. They need to fuck soon and they need to fuck for a while.

Connor bobs his head and sucks hard. Hank’s hand goes to Connor’s head, now, he can’t stop himself when he feels Connor trying to take more of him. He manages to keep himself from pulling Connor’s hair, though as he strokes it he feels his fingers wanting to curl.

Connor’s hand shoots up and folds around Hank’s, forcing him to make a fist and—pull. Connor’s mouth is full of dick so he can’t say as much, but he wants Hank to pull his hair.

The second Hank closes his fingers around Connor’s hair and tugs, Connor moans, and Hank loses the fight not to thrust into his mouth. His hips buck up and he hits the back of Connor’s throat. Connor makes a harsh choking sound and flies off of Hank’s dick, and Hank thinks, _shit_.

“Sorry, fuck—”

Connor has his hand over his mouth and he’s breathing heavily, head bowed.

“You okay? Hey, Con?”

“You have to warn me if you’re going to do that,” Connor manages. He clears his throat. “You’re very big and I’m not used to it.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. You wanna stop?”

“No, I’m ready now. I want you do it again.”

“Jesus,” Hank groans. Connor is already getting back to Hank’s cock.

He takes as much of Hank as he can without choking—and still he feels so good, he somehow feels better than he did before. Connor swallows what he can, his enthusiasm ruining whatever was left of Hank’s self-restraint. Hank gives one good, firm thrust into Connor’s throat, and Connor makes a less frightening version of the sound he made before, a version of the sound Hank can eat up without guilt. Hank eases out of his mouth, and then repeats the same firm thrust, not deep enough to hurt but deep enough for Connor to feel it. Connor drags Hank’s hand back into his hair and Hank pulls.

He thinks he might be able to start a rhythm up and fuck Connor’s mouth outright, using his hair to hold him in place, but he gets three thrusts in and realizes he’s definitely going to come if he keeps that up. It’s too perfect, it ticks too many boxes for him, and maybe—maybe some other time. But they’ve got other things to get to, tonight.

Hank releases his grip on Connor’s hair, and says, “Get on your stomach.”

Connor slides off Hank’s dick, looking dazed, his mouth dripping drool. Hank helps Connor to get into the position he wants: on his knees and elbows, his ass facing Hank. Hank has to crouch forward to rest comfortably on his knees, but he doubts he’ll even notice the slight discomfort once he’s in Connor. It doesn’t go over Hank’s head that this is same position he requested of Connor during their sexting—that might be why his mind goes there first, because this is the way he’s thought of doing it for months. They can always switch it up in the middle; he wants to start with a classic.

Hank grabs one of the condoms and the lube he pulled from the glove comparment earlier. Connor peeks back at him while Hank works, getting a condom open, spreading lube from his asshole down to his dick. Hank slips the condom over his middle finger, then lays it against the tight ring of muscle at Connor’s entrance. He starts to rub at the tightness, reaching forward to stroke Connor’s dick with his other hand.

“Good so far?”

“Yes.”

Hank inhales deeply. He pushes his finger into Connor, feeling a twinge of nervousness, like he might not do it right, even though he’s fucked assholes before, and a couple of them even had prostates to work with. Connor shifts against him, and Hank feels him, too, taking a deep breath. Trying to stay relaxed.

Hank curls his finger enough to put pressure on Connor’s prostate, and he listens hungrily to the sigh it earns from Connor. A nice little preview of what’s to come. He retracts the finger slowly, and then pushes it back in again, one degree harder and faster.

“Your fingers _are_ bigger than mine,” Connor mutters. Hank’s cock twitches stupidly, uselessly. He wishes he could tell it to slow the fuck down, that it’ll have its turn soon.

“Yeah?” Hank slides the finger out and in again a couple of times quickly and watches Connor wriggle. “I guess they are kind of thick.” Hank adds a second finger, his index finger. He watches Connor’s chest shudder with an exhale. “If you can’t handle this, how are you gonna take my dick?”

“I can handle it.”

Hank knows that’s probably true, that Connor is tougher than he looks, but damn if he doesn’t want to test it out. He starts working Connor harder, pulling him open and apart, spreading him until he whines. Hank’s dick keeps twitching, and he’s getting pretty impatient, yeah, but fingering Connor is kind of—fun. He gets to think about what it’s like when Connor fingers himself, and Connor gets the real thing, finally. It’s a win-win.

Hank adds a third finger and starts fucking Connor’s asshole like that, with his fingers, at which point Connor pleads, “I’m ready, I’m ready—please.”

That’s the closest Connor has come to begging, and it goes straight to Hank’s hips, straight to his already uncomfortable erection. He withdraws his fingers and turns the condom inside out. He’s gonna have to remember to clean the used condoms out of the back of his car, but that’s a problem for Future Hank.

As he slides a fresh condom over his dick, he lets himself worship at Connor’s back for a moment. It’s an incredible back, a really remarkable thing, and he knows the main features from the picture Connor sent him, but he’s never seen them in person. He’s never seen that mole in the small of Connor’s back, he’s never gotten to run his fingers down Connor’s sides from his ribcage to his hips. He’s never watched the way Connor’s shoulder blades move under his skin when he looks back at Hank. Hank leans forward and presses his mouth to one of those shoulder blades, and then to Connor’s mouth when he cranes his head around to reach. It’s a sweet kiss, and it gives Hank an opportunity to rub his hard cock on Connor’s naked ass, which is a plus.

Hank pushes himself up and back off of Connor, wincing at a twinge in his back, because apparently that’s something that happens to him nowadays. He guesses he’ll have more than a few aches tomorrow, thanks to their creative choice of location, but if this isn’t worth it in the moment then he doesn’t know what could be.

He spreads Connor’s cheeks, gives them a good squeeze, and lines himself up with Connor’s entrance. He presses the tip of his cock against the tight muscle and Connor tenses up, more than he did when Hank was stretching him out.

Hank runs his palm up the small of Connor’s back. “Relax,” he says, his voice low, rumbling in his chest. He makes a circle with his thumb against Connor’s skin until he feels him unclench.

He doesn’t hesitate once he gets the opportunity, doesn’t give Connor another chance to think too hard and close himself up, because Hank’s sure that’s what he’s doing. Thinking about what’s going to happen tomorrow or the next day or even when they leave this parking lot. Thinking about things that don’t matter right now, not when they’re finally getting to do what they’ve wanted for months. It’s Hank’s job, Hank figures, to distract Connor from his own brain, to fuck him good enough that he can’t hold onto any of his thoughts and he’s left with a blissful white noise, where he can feel himself and feel Hank and Hank wanting him and nothing else, because nothing else can be that important. Not tonight, anyway. Not in the back of this car.

Hank pushes into Connor. He doesn’t go deep right away, letting Connor adjust to the girth of him, because yeah, he’s wider and longer than a few fingers, even meaty ones like his own. Connor rolls his back and tilts his head to the side. Hank gives him another couple of inches, and then another, continuing to stroke the small of his back absently.

Connor lifts his head and looks back at Hank. His hair is an absolute mess, now, thanks to Hank. “Is that it?” he says, short of breath. Rather than answering, Hank gives him the last inches of his cock, pressing his hips into Connor’s ass, and he hates how much he likes the grimace on Connor’s face when he does it.

“How’s it feeling?” Hank asks, because grimaces might be good but he doesn’t actually want Connor to be uncomfortable. “You okay?”

“Mmm—” Connor shifts his hips and Hank feels it on his dick. Fantastic. “Ah. Good.” Hank watches him gulp. “I continue to be okay.”

Hank dips forward and kisses the back of Connor’s neck. He flicks his hips forward, barely even a thrust, just testing out the movement. It’s good for Hank, and judging by the purr it gets out of Connor, it’s good for him too.

Hank pulls almost all the way out again, taking his time, going inch by inch—he’s not going to be able to keep that pace, he’s going to need to really move, but they’ll work up to it. When he pushes back in, it’s faster than his first, achingly slow thrust, but still with barely any monmentum. It’s out again and in again and each time, a little bit faster, until he can feel the last of Connor’s stiffness starting to melt away, until he can sit back and watch the drool start to drip from Connor’s mouth.

Connor’s been quiet throughout Hank’s engine revving, until Hank gives him one good, rough thrust, and he lets out a single, long, breathless, “Oh.”

And Hank’s like, _yup_. He can’t hold himself back anymore.

He puts his hands on Connor’s hips and starts pounding him, again and again, maybe too hard and too fast but damn if they aren’t working out some shit here tonight. Hank’s spent the last five months with a fire under his ass for this man, and now the kettle’s going off, whistling furiously. He wants to fuck Connor into that mindnumbing bliss, and he thinks he can do it, if the effect his absolute railing has on Connor is any indication: Connor is face-down in Hank’s coat, spit everywhere, fingers clutching the down as he gasps and gasps and gasps.

Hank reaches forward, twists his fingers into Connor’s hair, and pulls his head up. It’s a risk, he doesn’t know if it’s going to work for Connor like it did when he was blowing Hank, but then Connor yells, “Fuck!” Which answers Hank’s question.

“Shit, you really like that, huh?” Hank pants.

“Fuck,” Connor says again, quieter, in more of a whine, as Hank continues to pull. First time hearing Connor laugh, first time hearing Connor swear, first time hearing Connor moan like a damn porn star. Lot of firsts tonight.

Hank keeps going. His hips slap Connor’s ass over and over again. He has started to sweat, despite the February chill, and steam curls off Connor’s back. Connor grips the headrest of the driver's seat to keep himself upright while Hank pounds him and tugs at his hair. The windows of the car are fogging up. The suspension absorbs some of the motion, and if any late night pedestrians spot them, they’re screwed, because it’s got to be obvious what’s going on in Hank’s SUV, even at a distance, even without knowing the dirty details. They aren’t being especially quiet, either.

Hank lets go of Connor’s hair and pushes his head down, instead. His hand can pretty much grasp Connor’s entire skull. The feeling of bigness exhilarates him. He slides his hand along the back of Connor’s neck, along the curve of his spine, to his tailbone. Connor moves under him, and after a minute Hank realizes he’s started to jerk himself off.

Fucking great. Hank gives him an extra rapid series of thrusts, to get him going. Connor lifts his head and his mouth is hanging open, his hair is at all angles, his cheeks are flushed. He’s wrecked. Hank couldn’t be more pleased with himself.

He reaches for Connor’s hair again, but Connor grabs his wrist before he can. “Hank,” he says, swallowing drool. “Stop—”

There’s a flicker of panic in Hank, and his hips stall. “What?”

“Let me ride you.”

“Uh, okay?” Hank can tells he’s grinning as he pulls out, and Connor notices.

“Oh my god,” Connor gasps, giving Hank’s chest a shove as they settle into their new position. Hank’s on his back, and Connor stradles his hips.

Hank’s grin has progressed to shit-eating, seeing the dick-dazed expression on Connor’s face. Mindnumbing bliss, yeah. “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“Shut up,” Connor manages. He’s panting and fumbling under himself for Hank’s dick.

“Did you just tell me to shut up? I kinda like th—oh, _fuck_.” Hank gets distracted mid-sentence by the sensation of Connor sliding onto his dick in one fast motion.

Connor inhales and exhales, his chest shaking. He lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, his forehead brushing the roof of the car. The curve of his neck, the apple of his throat, it’s—Hank doesn’t have a word he thinks can sum that up. He was never great with words, and stumbles through expressing what he feels on the best of days, but he recognizes the way some images stamp themselves on his heart.

He puts his hands on Connor’s hips and thrusts up into them, just a little, trying to get Connor to start bouncing on his dick. He’s looking forward to it.

Connor lowers his chin, meeting Hank’s eyes. He’s figured out how to close his mouth, somehow. He starts to move, rutting gently at first, and then in bounces as Hank gives him the thrusts to match, his erection bouncing with him. Connor has to crouch to keep from banging his head with each bounce, and somehow that’s really good for Hank, the confined space combined with Connor’s weight bouncing against his hips, the scratch of the all-weather carpeting combined with Connor’s asshole squeezing his cock.

Connor touches Hank’s chest, which isn’t weird in and of itself, but after a couple minutes of Connor’s fingers drawing shapes on him, he realizes Connor is tracing his tattoo. He must make a face, because Connor moves his hands down to Hank’s stomach, which shakes with each of his thrusts. Hank doesn’t really get what he’s doing, but he’s spent the last twenty minutes touching every corner of Connor’s body, so he doesn’t feel like he can complain. Does Connor not get that he’s the pretty one, here?

Connor sighs and folds forward, pressing his forehead into Hank’s sweaty, hairy chest. Hank’s dick slides out of him when he does this, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and—Hank doesn’t either. He feels the way you feel when a butterfly lands on your hand: something miraculously beautiful is touching him and he fears any movement that might frighten it away. After half a minute of frozen stillness, Hank brings himself to stroke Connor’s shoulder. Connor lifts his head to peek up at Hank.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “I just wanted to…” He presses his ear to Hank’s chest, as though listening for his heartbeat.

“What’d I say about apologizing?”

Connor smiles faintly.

Hank gets the feeling they’re done with the riding thing; Connor seems unfocused, and Hank suspects his brain’s started going again. So there’s only one thing to do about that.

Hank sits up, taking Connor with him. “Here, you lie back.” He puts Connor on his back and clambers on top of him. “See, now I’m right here. Nothing wrong with a little missionary, right?”

Connor nods.

Hank sits back, adjusts the condom, and slips back inside of Connor. They can fuck and kiss at the same time like this. Hank takes advantage of that right away, bending down to put his tongue in Connor’s mouth. Connor toys with his beard. The energy has changed since Hank fucked him from behind, and it shows in the way he moves into Connor now,slower, but with more behind each thrust. Before was a desperate release of a magnetic attraction bottled up over time; this is not that. It has a different rhythm, a different significance. Connor wraps his arms around Hank’s neck and kisses him back, nails digging into the skin of his shoulder, until he’s whimpering, needing to touch himself. Hank pulls up and continues to fuck him while he does it, their eyes locked.

That’s what it is, Hank realizes. This is different because they can look at each other, and what they’ve been able to do all this time is—look at each other. Hank has developed such a fondness for looking at Connor that it only makes sense he’d enjoy fucking him most when he can best see his goofy, excellent face, the face that drew him in right away.

God, when they met, did he ever think for a second they’d end up like this? Having some of the best sex of Hank’s life in a parked car? Because the sex is _good_. He can’t explain why it’s good, it would require him to articulate things for which he has no words, but Connor has something to do with it. He is, as Hank told him earlier, fucking incredible, not just to look at but to know intimately.

And now Hank gets to make him come, to watch him come. He can tell Connor is close with the way his hand speeds up on his own dick and his breathing goes shallow. Hank doesn’t even know if it helps, but he tries to give it to Connor good, to scrape the bottom of the barrel for the last of his energy, because shit, he’s starting to run out. Connor makes a noise, _mmmmm!_ “Mmm,” he says, over and over, as he gets closer. He shuts his eyes. When his lips part, that’s when Hank knows it’s happening—Connor comes with an _ahh_ that’s nearly a squeak. He reaches up to Hank’s face, only managing to brush Hank’s cheek before his whole body goes slack.

Hank stays still for a minute, listening to them breathing just barely out of sync and taking in the sight of Connor beneath Hank, white streaks on his stomach and chest, worry lines smoothed from his face. _Remember this_ , Hank tells himself. _Don’t fucking forget this_. He’d rather forget his social security number than lose a second of this.

Hank’s ready to keep going, but he can be patient when Connor looks like that.

After another minute, Connor opens his eyes. He swallows.

“Are you going to do it in me?” he asks, sounding merely curious, like that question doesn’t wreck Hank’s whole entire shop.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

Damn. He can’t lose steam now. In theory the best part has yet to arrive, but Hank has trouble imagining anything’s going to top watching Connor just now. It will feel good, though, and his cock does ache. He manages to get his hips moving again. Connor is just as tight as he was before, and he’s—smiling—while Hank keeps fucking him. A sleepy, silly smile, but it’s there. He can feel himself getting there, watching Connor’s smile. After the first time they met, he sat in this very car in this very parking lot, thinking about how fucked up Connor’s smile made him feel. How fucked up it _makes_ him feel.

Connor reaches up and begins stroking Hank’s chest like before, and yeah, that’s good, that’s helping. Hank grunts his appreciation. With the hand that isn’t exploring Hank’s chest, Connor grabs one of Hank’s wrists, forcing him to make a quick adjustment in balance in order to keep thrusting. Turns out Hank can’t be mad about it, because Connor just wanted—to suck on his index and middle finger while making little noises of pleasure. “Jesus, Connor,” Hank says, though Jesus is for-fucking-sure not involved here.

The thing that pushes Hank over the edge is… not something that’s ever pushed Hank over the edge before, and the surprise of it is what does him in, partly. Connor is sucking on his fingers and touching his chest and writhing delightedly beneath him, so it’s the perfect setting for an orgasm, and Hank’s starting to get needy. He just can’t figure out how to get himself those last ten yards into the endzone.

Connor can figure it out, apparently. He mingles his fingers with Hank’s in his own mouth, slicking them with spit, and then reaches up to gently pinch Hank’s nipple.

Hank has never had his nipple pinched outside of purple nurples, and he can’t remember ever getting a staggering orgasm from one of those. And yet he comes at the sensation, and he’s surprised to find himself coming, which only makes him come harder. His hips slam Connor’s ass. It’s a climax that’s been building in his gut for nearly half-an-hour, but also for six months, and the release is as shiver-inducing, throat-tightening, extremity-curling as you’d expect. He curls his fingers in Connor’s mouth and makes—some kind of sound, presumably, who really fucking knows. He’s not present enough to hear it. He goes to another planet for a bit.

Coming down from it, he hears Connor saying, “It seems like you enjoyed yourself.”

Hank can’t think of a comeback. He pulls his fingers out of Connor’s mouth. He pulls his dick out of Connor’s ass, and Connor sighs in the back of his throat. Hank removes the condom and ties it off but after that, he can’t do much besides roll onto his back and lie beside Connor. He has to wait for the feeling to come back to all the parts of his body, so he can start assessing the damage.

“Fuck,” he says, mostly to himself. “Fuck, that was good.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hank sees Connor roll onto his side, looking at him. “It was?”

Hank snorts. “Funny.”

“I was under the impression I wasn’t good at sex.”

It takes Hank a second to realize that Connor isn’t kidding. “Who told you that?” Connor doesn’t answer, meaning it’s a conversation for another time. Fine with Hank, probably just as well. “You were great. Everything was great. You were…” Again with the words failing him. “Hey, c’mere.” And he drags Connor toward him for a kiss.

Connor must’ve been waiting for this, because he globs onto Hank’s chest at once. They kiss like that for a while, soft and slow and sweet, Connor half on top of Hank and rising and falling with his breaths. The moonlight comes in through the fogged up windows. The car jumps a little beneath them, its engine still running to keep them warm.

Connor pulls away from a kiss to tell Hank, matter-of-factly, “The sound you make when you orgasm is very similar to the sound you made when you called me and made me say your name.”

Hank barely remembers that, and he definitely doesn’t remember what sound he made. “Sounds about right for me.”

Connor smiles. Hank’s never going to get enough of that. He’ll die not having had enough.

“Hey,” Hank murmurs, their noses an inch apart. “I meant to say before.”

“Hm?”

“That I love you too.” It’s hardest to say it the first time, Hank knows, and it’s gotten easier as he’s gotten older. Especially when it’s true.

He’s smiling at Connor, but Connor isn’t smiling back. The smile has slid from his lips. Connor’s a hard read to begin with, and this is a delicate situation. Hank’s heart leaps in his chest.

Connor’s bottom lip quivers, and Hank realizes—it’s not bad. It might just be that Connor hasn’t heard that particular phrase very much in his life. That hurts Hank, too, but in a different way. Worse, maybe, than the alternative.

Connor drops his ear to Hank’s chest. “When do you need to be back?” he asks.

“Eleven.” Hank twists around to check the time on the dashboard. “I’d say we got half an hour.”

Connor peers up at him, hopefully, a little childlike. “You’ll stay with me?”

“Of course, Con. As long as I can.”

Connor’s smile returns, triumphantly, creeping over his face like a sunrise. “You know,” he says. “We probably shouldn’t have done this.”

Hank pulls him in for a kiss, grinning. “Oh, definitely. Huge mistake.”


	7. presents

Connor doesn’t forget things like other people do, but he can become—distracted.

For example, on the night of his mid-year parent-teacher conference with Hank, they have sex in the back of Hank’s car and it slips Connor’s mind that when he goes home, Markus will have friends over. Markus told him about the gathering several weeks in advance, as a common roommate courtesy, and it had slipped Connor’s mind, because he got—distracted.

Now he is standing outside the door to his apartment, listening to the sounds of laughter and talking on the other side, and attempting to piece together some kind of explanation for why he looks like he just got ruined in the back of an SUV other than, _I was just ruined in the back of an SUV_.

He knows Markus’s friends, unfortunately. He knows they’re young and smart and that they can spot an after-sex flush. Connor lets his head thump against the door, takes a breath, and fits his key into the lock.

There are seven or eight people in Connor’s living room, all around his and Markus’s age or younger, everyone of them good-looking and in the prime of health. Markus seems to attract friends who look like him.

He enters to a chorus of hellos and removes his coat and shoes. Simon grabs a wine glass and starts pouring him a drink.

“Didn’t you say you were going to be home an hour ago?” Markus asks.

“It took longer than I thought it would.”

“Parents can be so demanding,” North sighs.

Simon comes over to hand him the wine he didn’t ask for, and gets a closer look at the state Connor’s in. His eyebrows fly up. “What happened to you?”

“Your shirt is about one third of the way tucked-in,” says someone else—Josh, that’s his name.

“And your hair is everywhere,” Simon agrees.

Realization is dawning on North’s face. Connor knocks back half his drink in two gulps.

“Connor,” she says. “I didn’t even know you were dating again.”

Simon nods. “Ah, yes.” He gestures to Connor’s… whole deal. “That’s what that is. I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”

“He had sex,” Josh says, loudly.

Simon glares at him. “Well, yes, I see it _now_.”

“Will you tell us about him?” North asks, and a couple of people murmur excitedly in agreement. Connor takes another gulp of wine.

“He clearly doesn’t want to,” says Markus, stepping in to save the day. “Leave him alone, let him go to bed.”

“You’re right,” says Simon. “He’s probably exhausted.”

Markus jerks his head toward Connor’s room, signaling for him to make his escape.

“Good night, everyone,” Connor manages.

He scurries for his room. Behind him, he hears Josh say, “I’m jealous. I want to come home looking like that more often.”

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

The next morning, Connor can’t stop yawning over his breakfast. The leftover adrenaline made him sleep fitfully.

He is finishing up his cereal when Markus appears in the doorway to the kitchen. They haven’t seen each other since Connor ran off to bed last night.

Markus doesn’t say anything at first, pouring himself a cup of coffee and sitting across from Connor. But he doesn’t touch the newspaper they usually share, so Connor knows he has something on his mind.

Connor waits for him to out with it. Markus doesn’t mince words.

“Why don’t you want anyone to know?” is the question he finally asks.

Connor pushes away his empty cereal bowl. “I have a good reason.”

“Do you not want to tell me?”

“I made the mistake of telling Niles. He didn’t take it well.”

“I’m not Niles.” Markus shakes his head. “Not even a little. God help me if I were.”

Connor looks at his roommate, who takes a sip of coffee, waiting patiently.

“Typically when someone hides a relationship,” Markus says. “It’s not good for their wellbeing. You’ve seemed… upset, lately.”

“I’m not upset,” says Connor. “I was. I’m not upset anymore—or, I would not describe myself as upset. Maybe I’m concerned, now. But not upset. I’m happy. I’m just worried.”

Markus blinks. “Do you want to talk about it?” The look he’s giving Connor implies that he believes the answer is _yes_.

Come to think about it, Connor can’t think what the point would be in hiding his and Hank’s relationship from Markus. Markus doesn’t work at the school, he doesn’t know anyone who does, and he’s been a loyal friend to Connor for over ten years. The only thing holding Connor back has been… embarrassment at the failure of his own professionalism. Last night was a low point on that front.

Embarrassment is a silly emotion to have around one’s friends. Markus was there the first time Connor got drunk; he was there at the end of Connor’s last relationship, when Connor didn’t leave the apartment for days at a time.

“I’m dating the parent of one of my students.”

Markus raises his eyebrows slightly. That is as surprised as he ever gets, so he’s quite surprised.

“Actually, we’re more than dating,” Connor continues. “I love him, and last night he told me he loves me too.”

Markus seems to be waiting to make sure there isn’t more, which turns out to be a smart decision on his part, because Connor hears himself keep talking.

“We had an argument at a school event, and the principal witnessed it and gave me a disciplinary warning not to… continue involving myself with him.” Connor purses his lips. “And now we’ve slept together.”

“From what you’ve told me,” says Markus slowly. “It sounds like that might happen again.”

“I was planning on it, yes.” Really, sincerely, meticulously planning on it.

“But you’re concerned about your boss finding out.”

“Yes.”

Markus sits back in his chair and takes another sip of coffee. He smiles. “And you’ve been holding onto this secret for how long?”

Connor tries to think of a date, a time when all this started, but there was never a moment where he and Hank got together. Rather, they fell into it over time, over a dozen otherwise insignificant conversations. They went from being strangers to being the antithesis of strangers, to Hank being a person Connor both knows well and wants to know better, and all this change took place without Connor realizing, the same way the Earth rotates and you never feel it.

“I’m not sure,” Connor replies. “Since we met, I guess. A few months. Since September.”

Markus frowns. “He’s not the one who drunk dialed me asking for you, is he?”

Connor tilts his head to the side.

“Wow,” says Markus, raising his coffee to his lips. “Humble beginnings.”

“He did apologize for that.”

“That’s something, I suppose.” Markus takes a sip. “And then, back in December—you snuck out one night and I caught you. You were going to see him?”

Connor nods.

Markus lets out a tremendous sigh. “That’s difficult, Connor.”

“It is,” Connor says, though he’s only just realized this as he says it out loud. “It’s a challenging situation.” All it took was a basic expression of empathy and suddenly Connor can see that the way he’s been feeling might be, just a little, justified. That there is something to his frustration.

“Have you two decided what you’re going to do?”

“Not really, no.” Markus makes a good point: perhaps he and Hank can figure this out together. Connor isn’t sure why he didn’t think of that. Markus is opening doors for him, right now, and he doesn’t seem to know it.

“You’re welcome to tell me when you decide,” Markus offers. “Or if you want to talk about it before you decide, too, I’ll be here. As long as you’re in this apartment, it doesn’t have to be a secret.”

Connor doesn’t know what to say to that—it seems to him a kind gesture on Markus’s part, letting Connor bring this home, but it _is_ Connor’s home too, if he really thinks about it. “I’ll try to remember that,” says Connor, though he doesn’t mean it literally. He will remember Markus’s offer, he would have trouble forgetting; rather, he knows he might struggle taking Markus up on it.

Markus probably understands that’s what he means—they have been friends for a long time, after all. “Please do,” he says, getting up. “But you should do what you can to be happy. You deserve it.”

Connor musters a nod.

“That was an unconvincing response,” Markus notes, backing out of the kitchen, coffee in hand. “Work on believing it, maybe?”

“I will.”

“Then I’ll hold you to it. Have a good day, Connor.”

 

 

###

 

 

 

Even when he was married, Hank hated Valentine’s Day. Even now that he’s in the midst of a new relationship, and he’s excited about that new relationship, he hates Valentine’s Day. There’s just something cloying and insincere about it that rubs him the wrong way—if you love somebody, he reasons, you don’t just let them know one day out of the year.

He decides he’s not going to mention the “holiday” to Connor, and hopes Connor won’t mention it to him. Since their—Christ, he keeps stumbling over what to call it and returning to _fantastic fuck_ , even though he knows it was more than that—but yeah, since their fantastic fuck they’ve returned to daily conversations over text. It’s one of those meandering, ongoing chats that they’ll pause for a few hours and pick up again later, when they both can be at their phones, or if Connor isn’t available, Hank sends him a longer message and eventually gets a longer reply.

Texting is fine and good and all that, but now that they’ve been together, in person, now that they’ve experienced what it would be like if they were truly, properly dating, Hank can’t stop thinking about the next time. The night before Valentine’s Day, he sends Connor a text.

(7:34 PM) So when am I gonna get to see you again

(7:34 PM) _I’m not sure._

(7:35 PM) _We need to decide how to proceed_

How to proceed? Hank wants to mention that he’s got a few ideas about that, about them “proceeding.” But he thinks he knows what Connor is getting at.

(7:35 PM) You mean how can we do it without you losing your job?

(7:36 PM) _Yes, that is what I mean._

(7:36 PM) I don’t really get it

(7:36 PM) It’s not casual sex

(7:37 PM) We can wait to tell Cole

(7:37 PM) Who are they to tell you what you can’t do in your own free time

(7:38 PM) _We had sex on school property_

Connor thinking he needs a reminder makes Hank roll his eyes.

(7:38 PM) ASIDE from that part

(7:39 PM) Which is not gonna happen again

(7:39 PM) _No, it won’t._

(7:40 PM) Thank god there are lots of other places we could have sex, huh

(7:40 PM) _I know that_

(7:41 PM) _I have to go. Markus needs something._

(7:41 PM) _Sorry._

Hank sighs at his phone. Connor’s not someone who knows how to get his feelings across through a text, and sometimes it makes things harder. Hank feels like they could sort this out in a twenty minute conversation if they were in the same room, but it could take them a month to figure it out over messages. Ironic when the thing they can’t figure out is how to keep seeing each other in person.

The next morning, it snows. Hank is late dropping Cole off for school and even later for work.

It’s a real fucking bummer that the first thing he hears when he gets in is Gavin’s voice.

“You’re doing better than I thought you were, Hank.”

“What does th—” Then Hank notices the giant bouquet on his desk. Red roses, two dozen. “Christ.”

There’s really only one person they could be from, but Hank looks for a card anyway. He wants to know what Connor has to say for himself.

“Looking for this?” says Gavin, skeezily, like a skeezeball.

When Hank looks up, Gavin is sitting at his desk, which is directly opposite Hank’s. He leans back in his chair and puts his feet up, waving the note.

“Reed, you look like a fucking cartoon villain right now.” Hank reaches to snatch the note out of his hands and Gavin pulls away. “You ever heard of privacy? That mean anything to you?”

“Who’s Connor?”

“Fuck off.”

Hank finally gets him by the wrist and extracts the card from his hand. He settles back into his seat, repeatedly swallowing the urge to punch his partner in the face. Doesn’t feel like that’d go over well with the new boss.

Gavin keeps grinning like a lunatic. “You’re kinda sensitive about it still, huh? Don’t want everyone knowing that you like—”

“Actually I’m not,” Hank snaps. “I’m dating a hot thirty-something who’s crazy about me. How’s your love life going, Gav?”

Gavin’s grin shrinks into nothingness. “Does he have a brother?”

“Yeah, and he’s a dipshit. I’ll give him your number.”

Gavin gets up and goes to get coffee with his tail between his legs, leaving Hank to read his note.

 _I hope next year we can spend this day together_. _\- Connor_

“Pretty sappy,” he says to the note, as though Connor might hear him through it. He snaps a selfie with the bouquet featuring 90% roses and 10% his face and sends it to Connor.

(9:24 AM) Gonna be honest with you

(9:24 AM) I didn’t get you anything

(9:24 AM) I kinda deliberately forget this day every year…

Connor doesn’t respond right away and Hank tries to get to work, as best as he can with a bunch of flowers taking up his desk. He checks his phone a couple of hours later and sees a reply.

(10:13 AM) _You’ve already given me enough._

 

 

###

 

 

 

Only a few days out of the school year leave Connor feeling tired, and Valentine’s Day is one of them. It’s a high activity day for his students—lots of sugar, lots of feelings. At the end of it, when he’s finally alone, he likes going through the pile of Valentines the students have written for him, and knowing that experience awaits him gets him through the rough patches, such as chocolate-induced vomiting.

He is thinking about the Valentines waiting for him on his desk while he goes through the day’s dismissal procedures, leading his students out to the buses and parent cars waiting to take them home.

He’s always aware of Hank’s car when it enters the pick-up queue. That has only gotten worse in the past two weeks, now that he associates that car with—things. The other day, he saw the same make and model parked outside the place where he gets his hair cut and turned red. The barber asked if he felt all right.

Today Hank’s car doesn’t join the queue, however; it pulls into visitor parking instead. Connor reminds himself to keep breathing.

Hank is panting when he finally jogs up to Connor, who’s waiting with Cole and a handful of remaining students. “Hey,” he says to Connor, and then to Cole, “Hey, bug.” He takes a deep breath. “Con, can you just watch him for a few more minutes? I need to go inside.”

“You do?” says Connor. “Why?”

“I just—I have a meeting.” He must realize that’s not going to be enough for Connor, so he adds quietly, “With Principal Amanda.”

“You…”

“Gotta go, I don’t wanna be late for this one.” Hank gives him a friendly whack on the arm and jogs inside.

Connor stands there, shell-shocked.

“Where did my dad go?” Cole asks, tugging on his sleeve.

“He went to talk to the principal.”

“Why? Am I in trouble?”

“You know, I’m not sure why. But I know you’re not in trouble.”

The rest of Connor’s students get picked up by their parents, one-by-one, until Connor and Cole are on their own.

Connor offers Cole his hand. “Come on, let’s go inside and wait for your dad.” Cole nods.

He leads Cole not back to the classroom, but to the school’s main office instead. There are some administrative staff still mulling around, finishing up their work for the day. Connor shows Cole to a seat.

“Can you stay here for a bit, Cole? I’m going to check on what your dad’s doing.”

“Okay…”

He hears the fear in Cole’s voice, so he crouches to eye level. “Everything’s fine, I promise. I’ll be right back.” He shows Cole his palm, and Cole slaps it.

“High-five!”

“Good job.”

Connor leaves Cole and winds through the desk and filing cabinets to the back of the main office, where the principal’s office is located. He can hear voices coming from inside, but he can’t make out what Hank and Amanda are saying.

Swallowing trepidation, he knocks gently on the door.

Amanda raises her voice to say, “Come in.”

Connor does. Hank is sitting in one of two chairs across from Amanda’s desk. When he sees Connor, he runs a hand over his face.

“Connor,” says Amanda. “How may I help you?”

“I wanted to be sure everything was all right with Lieutenant Anderson. That there were no problems.” It occurs to Connor that he might be better off with honesty, in this situation. “Additionally, I think if you’re having the conversation I believe you’re having, I deserve to be a part of it.”

Amanda looks at him, and then at Hank. “How do you feel about Connor joining us, Lieutenant?”

“I feel great about that.”

Connor shuts the door behind him and takes a seat in the chair beside Hank.

Amanda addresses Hank. “Lieutenant, would you like to fill Connor in on the argument you were making before he arrived?”

Hank shifts in his seat, then nods. “I was just saying that… uh, I’m Cole’s father, and if the reason Principal Amanda wasn’t comfortable with us—me and you, Connor—dating was because of how it might affect Cole, that… that’s my decision to make as his father. I don’t need either of you protecting Cole for me.”

“Oh,” Connor manages.

“And I also pointed out that she can’t tell you what to do with your private time, outside of school, and if you happened to spend it with me, it shouldn’t affect how you’re seen at work.”

“Oh,” Connor says again.

“ _And_ I also mentioned I didn’t think this would be that big of deal if we weren’t both men—”

“Which I vehemently denied,” Amanda says.

“—and then you came in.”

“Oh,” says Connor, hopefully for the last time. He hopes he will have something more to add, soon.

Hank turns back to Amanda. He seems determined. “All I’m saying is, I know it could be hard for Cole if Connor and I got in a fight or broke up or whatever, but—”

“As did happen at the winter festival,” Amanda points out. “I want us all to be clear: that was not acceptable behavior for a school function.”

“Yeah, we—” Hank looks at Connor, who is trying his best to seem relaxed and normal. “—we know. That’s not going to happen again. And it was my fault, not Connor’s.”

Amanda sits back in her chair and steeples her fingers. “There is not much I can do to curtail your actions outside of this school, Connor, and I know I have absolutely no control over yours, Lieutenant. I can only give you my advice, which is that you wait until Cole is out of Connor’s class to reveal your relationship to him.”

“That’s always been my intention,” says Connor. Hank glances sideways at him. Perhaps Connor neglected to mention this.

She sits forward, still with her fingers steepled. “As for what happens in the school, I have the right to discipline Connor for any excessive displays of affection. And because of the unique circumstances—that you are the parent of one of Connor’s students, _not_ that you are both men—” She gives Hank a stern look. He’d been gearing up to complain. “—I would deem any displays of affection inappropriate. You don’t want Cole’s classmates asking him why his father is kissing his teacher.”

“But other than that,” Hank says, squinting at her. “You’re saying it’s okay? That you’re not going to fire Connor if we start dating?”

“I’m not a fool, Lieutenant. I know you’re already dating.”

Connor turns pink and stares at his lap. He hears Hank laugh under his breath. It’s a little reassuring.

“But yes,” Amanda continues. “As long as nothing inappropriate happens on school grounds, you are free to do as you wish.”

“Nothing inappropriate on school grounds,” Hank repeats. “That sounds doable, doesn’t it, Con?”

Connor knows he’s red and getting redder. He can only hope it reads _embarrassed_ rather than _guilty_ , though it’s a combination of the two. “Very doable.” He is only just starting to realize that he has something to be happy about.

“If we agree on those terms, then I think we’ve reached a truce,” Amanda says.

Hank stands up and shakes her hand. “You have a great afternoon, Principal Amanda.” She offers him a pained smile and a nod.

When the door to Amanda’s office closes behind them, there’s a moment where they’re essentially alone, just—staring at each other. Hank grins, and Connor tries to mirror it, or otherwise express how he’s feeling, but after opening and closing his mouth several times, he can’t seem to summon a coherent expression or statement.

Hank chuckles and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “You’re good. Let’s go get Cole, okay?”

They reunite with Hank’s son, who is bouncing in his seat and singing to himself.

“See, Cole?” says Connor. “Everything’s fine, just like I said.”

Hank beams. “I’d say everything’s great.” Connor doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Hank quite this happy. And to think that Connor himself is the reason for that happiness… Connor’s stomach feels like as a balloon, like it might expand and he might float away at any second. He doesn’t feel tethered by gravity.

They leave the office together, the three of them, Hank holding Cole’s hand and Connor with his hands clasped behind his back.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” says Connor, a tremor in his voice. He clears his throat, as though it might ground him.

They are halfway to the parking lot when Hank leans toward Connor and mutters, “I’m dying to kiss you right now.”

Connor puts a finger to his lips and gestures to Cole, who’s walking slightly ahead of them, still singing what sounds like a pop song.

“I know, I know, I just wanted to say!”

Hank helps Cole into the backseat of the car, watches him buckle his seatbelt, and closes the door.

“Cole’s got his karate class tonight,” Hank says, then bites his lip.

“Is that enough time?”

“It’s better than no time at all.”

Connor nods. “I’ll text you my address.”

“Good. Great.” Hank looks at him for a long moment, then bows his head. “God, okay. Fuck. I’m going. I’ll see you later.”

He wrenches open the driver’s door, and takes another long, tight-jawed look at Connor.

“A few hours,” Connor reminds Hank. He doesn’t know where he finds the restraint. He tries to smile but ends up doing the same shocked, fidgety expression he did before.

“A few hours, yeah. I can wait a few hours.” Hank climbs into his car. “I’m a fucking adult. I can wait a few hours. Hey, Connor, can you step back? I can’t handle seeing you in the side mirror.”

Connor begins to laugh, burying his face in his hands, and backs away from the car as Hank starts the ignition and pulls out.

Now that Connor has finally figured out how to smile about this, he can’t seem to stop. He goes back inside to his pile of Valentines, unable to wipe the grin from his face.

 

 

###

 

 

 

Hank can remember some long hours—the labor before Cole was born, a couple of stakeouts that took years off his life—and he’s going to have to count the hours waiting to see Connor on Valentine’s Day, too, now.

It’s suffering. He suffers. He tries to get Cole to go to karate early, but there’s ten minutes left in his bears show so he won’t budge.

The karate place is, unfortunately, twenty minutes driving from Connor’s apartment. Hank resists the urge to throw his phone out the window when the directions app tells him this. Twenty minutes there and twenty minutes back means he has only fifteen, maybe twenty minutes with Connor. Not good enough. He tries to remind himself that he’s got the whole rest of his life to spend with this man, but his patience is running thin.

He bangs too hard on the door to Connor’s apartment; only afterward does he notice that there’s a doorbell.

The door opens and Connor is there and the only thing he manages to say is, “Hank—” And then Hank is kissing him, lifting him off the ground. Connor squeaks, a noise that rivals his sexual moaning and whining in the pleasure it gives Hank. They stumble into the apartment and Hank kicks the door closed behind them. Hank runs his hand through Connor’s hair and gives it a little tug, which he could swear he’s thought about every other second for the last week and a half, and Connor squeaks again, louder. He presses Hank’s chest, pushing him away.

“Hank,” Connor says, panting. “This is my roommate Markus.”

Hank looks up and yeah, there’s a guy standing in Connor’s living room, looking like someone who just watched his roommate get thoroughly snogged as a greeting.

Hank puts his hands on his hips and smiles. “Markus. Good to finally meet you.” He swallows—he’a little out of breath himself. “Sorry about that,” he says, gesturing vaguely between himself and Connor.

“Not a problem,” says Markus slowly. “It’s good to meet you, too, Hank. I think I’ll go to my studio now.” Markus backs out of the living room. Connor looks like he might harbor guilt about that, but Hank’s got some ideas on how to distract him.

Once they’re alone, Hank wraps his arms around Connor again. He presses his face into Connor’s neck and inhales. Connor smells like chalk and an unidentified brand of soap with a lightly perfumed scent that the best thing Hank’s ever sniffed.

He can feel Connor’s vocal chords vibrate by his ear when Connor says, “Thank you.”

“For?”

“What you did today.”

“Normally last minute presents backfire,” Hank mutters, and tightens his arms around Connor’ waist.

“This one didn’t.”

“Good,” Hank says. He kisses Connor’s neck. Connor sighs. “So, what can we do in fifteen minutes?”


	8. lights on

When Hank leaves the apartment he has a full erection, thanks to fifteen minutes of making out and over-the-clothes rutting on Connor’s couch. It seems cruel for Hank to have to drive to pick up Cole in that state, so Connor offers to get him off quickly as he goes, but Hank shakes his head.

“I’ll play some bluegrass in the car. That always kills it.”

Connor laughs; Hank kisses him on the cheek before he leaves, and Connor can still feel the scratch of his beard when he jerks off in the shower a few minutes later.

He gets a text from Hank right as he’s going to bed that night.

(11:12 PM) _We gotta plan better than that_

(11:14 PM) What should we plan?

(11:14 PM) _What are you doing next Saturday_

(11:14 PM) For the whole day?

(11:15 PM) _Yeah for the whole day_

An entire day with Hank. An entire day with Hank that might turn into an entire night with Hank, if Hank finds a willing sitter for Cole.

(11:15 PM) I am free

(11:15 PM) _Anything you wanna do?_

(11:16 PM) Whatever you’d like to do.

(11:16 PM) _There’s a museum we should check out_

Connor blinks. He didn’t expect Hank to suggest a museum for their first actual date. Not that he objects—he loves museums and has since he was a boy—but Hank once told him in a text that he didn’t “get art,” aside from Norman Rockwell, who he finds to be “pretty all right.”

(11:17 PM) I would love to go to a museum with you

(11:17 PM) Are you sure?

(11:18 PM) _Yeah we’ve been planning to go there for ages_

(11:18 PM) Okay

(11:18 PM) What are you going to tell Cole?

(11:19 PM) _That we’re hanging out as friends_

(11:19 PM) Okay

It’s not a lie—he and Hank _are_ friends, though they’re more than friends too—and it’s not as if Cole will be there the entire time. They can explain in brief and put it in the back of their minds for the rest of their day together.

He turns up to Hank’s house in the late morning on Saturday, as requested. Hank throws open the front door and ushers him in, out of the cold. It’s antithetical to the last time Connor showed up on Hank’s doorstop in every way.

Hank calls up the stairs, “Cole, are your shoes on yet?”

“Are we taking him to the sitter’s house?” Connor asks.

“The sitter?”

Connor blinks at Hank and Hank blinks at Connor.

Cole comes bounding down the stairs, shouting, “Museum! Museum!”

“Inside voice and don’t run on the stairs, please,” says Hank.

“Museum,” says Cole, in a stage whisper. “Hi, Mr. Connor. Are you coming to the museum, too?”

“Hi, Cole.” Connor glances at Hank. His throat has tightened up and it’s difficult to say, “I am.”

“Is everyone going to be there? Is it a field trip?”

“Just the three of us, bug,” Hank tells Cole. “Did you double knot those shoelaces?”

In the car, Hank announces that this is an express to the Michigan Science Center and Cole cheers. This clears up several things for Connor: why Hank made such an out-of-character suggestion, why he’d used _we_ when he spoke about his plans to visit.

It would be shameful of Connor to feel disappointed, so he decides he won’t. He likes Hank and he likes Cole and there’s no reason for him not to like the two of them together. Perhaps he would’ve liked to spend some one-on-one time with Hank, too, but there will be plenty of opportunities for that in the future, Connor assumes—or, he hopes.

Cole and Hank get into a discussion about what Cole wants to see at the Science Center, Connor listening quietly. Hank glances at him throughout the drive, lingering on the helpless fidgeting of his hands, which toy with the zipper of his coat until he pulls a quarter from his pocket and starts passing it between his knuckles. His mind runs through possible scenarios he might need to handle—Cole wondering why he’d come along, Cole mentioning to a stranger that he’s here with his father and his teacher. Cole asking Connor any kind of question normally reserved for parents.

They reach the museum and Hank parks. He lets Cole go ahead as they walk toward the entrance, which gives him and Connor something approximating privacy.

“You okay?” Hank asks, brushing Connor’s elbow with his own.

“Yes.”

“You’re quiet.”

“Am I?” Connor hadn’t intended to be quiet.

“You are. What’s going on in that head of yours?” Hank raises his hand like he’s going to touch Connor’s hair, but Connor dips away.

“Cole’s here,” Connor murmurs, in response to the confusion and offense on Hank’s face.

“He’s seven, Connor. He doesn’t pick up on subtle shit.”

“He might not recognize it now, but it could cause lasting trauma.”

Hank runs his palm down his face. “You know, you really know how to set a mood.”

The conversation halts when they reach the ticket booth and Hank prepares to buy their admission. Connor starts to get out his wallet to pay his share, but Hank shakes his head, handing the employee his credit card.

“Absolutely not.”

“We should split it,” Connor insists.

“It’s my treat.”

Connor pulls a card out of his wallet and tries to give it to the museum employee who’s ringing them up. She looks between him and Hank, trying not to laugh.

“How about you get lunch?” Hank says. Connor hesitates, then retracts his card.

“Fine.”

The ticket lady takes Hank’s card and rings them up with a smile. “I’m the same way whenever I do anything with my dad.”

Her smile vanishes when she looks up and sees their faces. Connor’s eyes have gone huge and Hank’s jaw is clenched tightly enough that a vein protrudes from his forehead.

She slides their tickets across the counter like she’s getting rid of a bomb. “Enjoy MiSci.”

“An actual fucking nightmare,” says Hank under his breath as they leave the ticket booth. “Who assumes something like that?”

Connor doesn’t answer. He’s too nauseous to think of a reply.

Hank waves Cole over from a coin funnel, where he’s been watching people’s pennies circle downward and get gobbled up as donations. Hank is a better actor than Connor, or perhaps he’s just got more practice grinning and bearing. All the annoyance has fled his tone when he says to Cole, “You ready to see some cool stuff?”

It _is_ a good museum; Connor has been here before, on a field trip some years ago. He hangs back, mostly, letting Hank and Cole explore together. Hank will look up from an exhibit—a giant orb demonstrating static electricity, a miniature version of the Mackinac Bridge, replicas of moon landers and space shuttles—and motion for Connor to join them, but Connor only smiles and waves each time. After a while his stomach settles down, and he can enjoy how sincerely excited Cole gets about everything. He loves learning in a rare way, and it feels wrong to think of him as a favorite student, but Connor would be fond of Cole even if he barely knew Hank.

This fondness makes it harder to walk over and kneel beside them and answer Cole’s questions about how he can become an astronaut. Connor doesn’t know how to keep one foot in the realm of teacher-and-student while stepping tentatively into this new realm of parent’s-significant-other-and-child. Cole won’t think of these things so Connor feels he must, that he has a responsibility to a future Cole who might count Connor as his _step-father_. Connor can’t make that word sound good in his head, no matter how hard he tries.

Hank is a good father. He’s attentive to Cole, he’s patient, he’s realistic and kind. Connor is a good teacher, and perhaps there are similarities in those two roles, but—being a teacher is his job. He doesn’t take it home with him, if he can avoid it.

In the nutrition exhibit, the three of them stand in front of a towering display of junk foods. Cole points at various products. “We eat those. And those. And those. And those.”

Hank notices Connor frowning at him. “Hey,” he says to Cole. “Can you talk about how many vegetables I feed you?”

“What vegetables?”

Hank sighs heavily, and Cole keeps smacking buttons to make different sections of the display light up.

Connor begins, “Over-consuming processed foods—”

“It’s bad, I know.” Hank lowers his voice. “You were upset when we got here. Even before that woman thought I was your dad.”

“I would prefer not to talk about that.”

“You know, I bet that’s gonna happen a lot. Jesus.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Connor says again. He doesn’t care too much what people think of them, but that moment cemented his feeling of displacement.

Hank frowns. “I just want to know what’s bugging you. Talk to me? Please?”

Connor pulls his lip between his teeth. Cole skips off to explore a large model of the stomach and they follow.

“I thought today was going to be just the two of us,” Connor says quietly. They stand side-by-side, watching Cole play, but Connor can feel Hank looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t think I’m… comfortable being around Cole like this, yet.”

“You’re around him all day at school.”

“That’s different.”

“Why does it have to be different?”

Hank sounds—annoyed. “It’s my work,” Connor mutters. Connor’s stomach has begun to hurt again. “Are you upset with me?”

“I don’t know about upset, but…” Hank watches as Cole reads a display out loud to himself. “You know this is part of the deal, right? Cole’s gonna be here sometimes. He’s gonna be here most of the time, he’s—he’s my kid, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I know.” Connor has started to fiddle with his zipper again. “I like Cole. It’s not…”

“If you like him then what’s the issue?”

“What if he doesn’t like me?”

Hank frowns, and for a second Connor is sure he’s said the wrong thing. His face feels hot. “Cole loves you. He talks about you all the time. He says you can name how far all the planets are from the sun, like that’s a superpower or something.”

Connor shrugs. “I can do that.”

“You’re his favorite teacher, Connor.”

“But right now I’m not his teacher.” Connor tugs at the neck of his sweater. He’s not wearing a tie today. “Right now, I’m your…”

Hank crosses his arms and grins expectantly. “You’re my what?”

“Boyfriend?” Connor mumbles, unsure. He doesn’t understand why Hank is smiling.

Hank pokes his head toward Connor. “I just like hearing you say that. Relax.” Connor nods and tries to take his advice. Hank’s grin loses some of its shine. “So you’re worried about being more than his teacher.”

“It’s common for children to resent step-parents for trying to replace—”

“Sorry, did you just say ‘step-parents’?” Hank shakes his head and lays a reassuring hand on Connor’s lower back. “You’re three miles ahead of where you need to be. Let’s slow down a little.”

“I’m very serious about you, Hank. This will become relevant.”

“Not denying it, just saying it shouldn’t be ruining our first date.”

“Am I ruining it?” Connor asks meekly. It does sound like something he’d do.

“Not you, _it_. Where ‘it’ is… you beating yourself up over this stuff.” Hank runs his hand up Connor’s back, between his shoulder blades. Connor feels warm, though it might just be his winter coat. “I mean, we’re out in public together right now— _together_ -together, and this museum has some pretty interesting stuff that seems up your alley. And Cole’s bedtime is eight o’clock. After that, you’ve got me all to yourself.”

The combination of Hank’s words and his touch hits Connor like stepping from the shade to the sunlight on a cold day. The sensation distracts him to the point where he doesn't quite register the suggestion tacked onto the end of what Hank just said. He scoots closer to Hank, one foot and then the other, until he sort of—collapses against his chest.

“Okay,” says Hank. “We’re doing that.” He puts his arms around Connor and hugs him back, though really Connor isn’t hugging him so much as leaning on him. “This is good. I don’t have a problem with this.”

“What’s wrong with Mr. Connor?” asks Cole’s small voice.

“He just needed a hug. Sometimes people just need a hug.”

There’s a tug at Connor’s waist, and he looks down to see that Cole is hugging him too, as best he can.

“Look at that, Connor,” Hank laughs. “You’ve got a double Anderson hug, now. How’s that feel?”

Connor wants to say that it’s the best hug he’s ever had, no contest, but his throat is stinging and he’s afraid if he speaks he might cry.

Hank mutters in his ear, “Let’s try to have some fun.”

“Okay,” Connor manages, after what feels like an eternity of tear-choked silence.

“Come on, I’ll let you buy me and Cole some astronaut ice cream.”

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

Hank watches Connor furtively for the rest of the afternoon. He looks for any hint of a smile or a laugh, any indication that his efforts to distract Connor from his own overactive mind have succeeded.

After lunch, wherein Connor explains to a riveted Cole how food is dehydrated, Hank thinks he spots signs of Connor loosening up.

There’s a kind of workshop space for building and flying paper airplanes, and Connor’s flies the farthest; when he beats Hank, he puts his hands in the air, and Hank is so charmed by the excessive celebration (by Connor’s standards) he can’t even pretend to be disappointed.

Connor sits Cole down and shows him the secrets of a good paper airplane. Maybe Hank should listen too, only he’s distracted by the sight of Connor and Cole huddled over a table, whispering, smiling—it leaves his ears buzzing and makes his chest go tight. It’s hypocritical to be thinking shit like that when he just told Connor to slow down, yeah, sure. But before Connor brought it up, he hadn’t meditated on the future much, not beyond his plans for Connor tonight—it certainly hadn’t occurred to him that he might not be raising a kid alone for the rest of his life.

Being with Connor is one thing; being a parent with him is another. At least he can say confidently that he gets where Connor is coming from on that front.

The museum closes at five. Cole doesn’t want to leave, and he’s tired, so he throws a small tantrum on the way to the car. Hank has to pick him up and physically put him in the backseat, and Cole kicks him in the shin in retaliation.

Once he’s finally got the car door closed, he turns and locks eyes with Connor. Connor blinks.

Hank indicates Cole, who has started to cry in the car. “Sorry about…”

“It’s okay.”

“He’ll get tired and stop eventually.”

“I know.”

Right. Connor spends almost as much time with Cole as Hank does. He knows this stuff.

As they’re pulling out of the parking lot, Cole’s sobs quiet down, and he starts playing an iPad game like nothing happened. Kids.

“I was thinking Chinese for dinner,” Hank says to Connor. When Connor doesn’t respond, he adds, “Or… something healthier?”

“Is there a supermarket on the way home?”

“Yeah, I guess?”

“Stop there and I’ll get the ingredients to cook you something.”

Hank wants to be offended, he really does, because Connor doesn’t even consider that Hank could have the building blocks of a healthy meal in his fridge. But the thought of Connor in his kitchen, in a little apron, whipping up dinner, makes Hank… kind of horny? It’s weird. Anyway, he’s not going to complain.

“Sure. I can do that.”

This turns out to be the correct decision. The smell of Connor’s cooking fills the whole house, and Hank salivates while he watches Connor chop vegetables. He has to borrow an apron from Hank. It’s one of those ones with the cartoonish naked beer belly and boxers on it, so not quite the same as Hank’s fantasy but still pretty damn good.

While they eat, Cole sorts through the stir fry naming each vegetable before he takes a bite. “Broccoli. Carrot.” He squints at one. “What is this?”

“It’s cauliflower,” says Connor.

“Why’s it look like that?”

“That’s what cauliflower looks like, bug,” Hank says, holding back a laugh.

Cole lays the cauliflower on the side of his plate and goes looking for more noodles.

“Can’t win ‘em all,” Hank mutters to Connor, who smiles.

Christ, his fucking smile, it gets Hank even now. And he cooks like an angel, too. Hank finds himself staring at the lock of hair falling down Connor’s forehead for the umpteenth time today. Even as Hank watches him, Connor tries to push it back in line with the rest of his hair. Everything about Connor is perfect, and yet there’s this little thing about him, this tiny flaw he can’t fix. Hank loves that lock of Connor’s hair—he loves it a stupid amount, more than any one person should love a single lock of hair belonging to another person.

He waits for Connor to finish his bite, then tells Cole, “I’ll give you a dollar to close your eyes for ten seconds.”

“Okay!” says Cole, immediately screwing his eyes shut. “Should I count?”

“Yeah, count.”

“One.”

Hank reaches for Connor’s chin and relishes in the way Connor’s mouth falls open.

“Two.”

He pulls Connor’s face toward his own.

“Three.”

Hank grins and leans in. Connor shuts his eyes.

“Four.”

They kiss. Lightly at first, until Hank realizes they haven’t kissed in a week and a half.

“Five.”

Hank opens his mouth against Connor’s and Connor does the same.

“Six.”

Hank pulls Connor’s lower lip through his teeth.

“Seven.”

Connor grips Hank’s face and puts his tongue in Hank’s mouth.

“Eight.”

Connor lets go of him and falls back into his chair.

“Nine.”

Hank wipes a strand of spit from his lip.

“Ten.”

Cole’s eyes fly open. Hank pulls out his wallet and puts a dollar bill in Cole’s grabby hand. “Now,” says Hank. “Finish your dinner, please.”

 

 

###

 

 

 

After dinner, Hank pops on the first animated musical movie he finds on Netflix, and the three of them sit on the couch to watch it. Cole is in the middle, a spot he claims thoughtlessly—Hank has to laugh at the pout on Connor’s face when he realizes he won’t be sitting next to Hank. Connor hasn’t picked up on how drowsy Cole is, clearly, or else he’d know how temporary this situation is.

About twenty minutes into the movie, Cole starts nodding off. After half an hour, he slumps to the side and rests his head on Connor’s arm, fast asleep. Connor looks up at Hank, awestruck, frozen, and Hank grins.

_I’ll take him to bed_ , he mouths, and gestures upward. Connor nods.

Hank scoops Cole up from the couch and carries him up the stairs. He hears the television go off behind him, Connor’s doing. He wakes Cole just enough to get him into his pajamas and make him brush his teeth, then tucks him in. The kid is out as soon as his head hits the pillow, no _Magic Treehouse_ required.

When Hank goes back downstairs, Connor is still sitting on the couch, but he pops to his feet when he sees Hank. He’s playing with his coin again, meaning he’s nervous. Hank would be a shitty detective if he couldn’t figure that out.

“How are you doing?” Hank asks him. They stand looking at each other with most of the living room between them.

“I’m all right.” Connor slips his coin back into his pocket. “Should I go?”

“Go?” Hank repeats. He can’t believe Connor just asked him that and meant it. “No, Connor. Hell no. Please don’t.”

Connor opens his mouth for a beat before he speaks. He has a habit of doing that, and it produces an almost Pavlovian desire in Hank, to—put stuff in his mouth. Yeah. “Okay,” says Connor. “But Cole is here…”

“We’ll lock the door and keep it down.”

Connor nods once and starts walking toward Hank—Hank’s heart surges into his throat—then Connor passes by him, headed for the front door.

“Wait, Connor—where are you—”

Connor stops with his hand on the doorknob. “I packed an overnight bag. It’s in my car.”

“Oh.” _Fucking calm your shit, Hank._ “Got it. Yeah, you go… get that.”

Connor looks at him for a moment, putting things together. “You were worried I was going to leave.”

Hank shrugs, scratches his beard. Plays it cool.

“You said we needed to plan better,” Connor says lightly. “So I planned.”

“Yeah, no, it’s good. Good job.”

“Thank you.”

It’s awkward for a second. A long second. More like three seconds, really.

And then Connor smiles and goes, “I’ll be right back.” He slips out the front door.

Hank staggers backward the second he’s alone. He needs to get a hold of himself if he’s going to make the best of tonight, of his and Connor’s first full night together.

He feels like he needs to do something, like he can’t just stand there and wait for Connor to come back, so he goes into the kitchen and starts on the dishes. A minute later he hears the front door click open and closed again. Connor finds Hank in the kitchen.

“Can I help?”

“Nope. Person who cooks doesn’t have to help clean up. That’s the rule.”

“Whose rule? You and your wife?”

Hank’s hands stall with a sponge in his fist. He watches a bubble form and pop on the plate he’s holding. He hadn’t even though about her when he said it—just one of those rules they lived by that he came to take for granted. “Uh, yes. I guess it was.”

Connor has sidled up beside him, and he takes the rinsed plate from Hank to put in the dishwasher. Hank can’t look him in the eye. “Sorry,” says Connor. “You don’t talk about her much.”

Hank starts on the next dirty plate. He refuses to look up. “You’re right. I don’t.”

“Should I not ask about her?”

“No, it’s not… it’s just a depressing topic, is all. I understand why you’re curious.”

“Will you tell me about her sometime, then?”

It’s such a gentle, kind question, Hank doesn’t know how he could refuse. He glances up finally and sees Connor peering at him with big round eyes, begging to be let in. “Yeah. I will.” Connor’s lips twitch. “If,” Hank adds, with more vigor, “you tell me about your father.”

Connor’s face falls. Hank feels a blip of concern, like maybe he just stepped on a landmine and it’s about to go off. Connor clears his throat. “Why would you want to know about that?”

“Why do you want to know about my dead wife?”

Connor shuts his eyes briefly. “Oh. Okay.”

“For the record,” says Hank, handing Connor a rinsed cup. “I had a shitty father, too. But I’ve had an extra twenty years to cope with it. I’m only saying, you can talk to me about it. I’m gonna understand.”

Connor doesn’t respond. Hank looks at him sideways, trying to get a read on what he’s feeling without freaking him out, but his expression is blank as he carefully arranges the dirty dishes for maximum dishwasher space.

Hank shuts off the faucet. The dishes aren’t done, but they can wait. “How about we change the topic?”

“What do you want to talk about?” Connor asks, shutting the dishwasher.

Hank dries his hands and tosses the towel aside. “Connor, you know I love talking to you, but that’s not really what I’m interested in right now.”

Hank can actually watch the blush spreading up Connor’s neck, and he takes pride in that. “Oh,” says Connor, ducking his head as Hank steps toward him.

“Is that okay?”

“Cole is upstairs.”

Hank keeps moving closer, closing the distance between them, until he has Connor backed up against the kitchen counter. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

Connor glances down at Hank’s chest and licks his lips. “If we lock the door—”

“Yup.”

“And we stay quiet—”

“I can do that.”

“I…” Connor mutters, as Hank moves in on his neck. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Jesus.” Hank groans against the skin beneath Connor’s ear. “That might be the least persuasive reason you could give for me not to want to fuck you.”

“I’m serious, Hank.”

Hank pulls away from Connor’s neck to look him in the eye. “And I’m serious about making you stay quiet. How about that?”

Connor’s gaze flickers to Hank’s mouth. He nods. It’s as much invitation as Hank needs to kiss him.

Hank presses his lips to Connor’s roughly, pressing him back into the counter. Connor makes a tiny squeak under the embrace and wraps his arms around Hank’s neck, his fingers dipping beneath the collar of Hank’s shirt. That, and the hot wet sensation of Connor’s tongue against his own, and the pressure between their hips, is enough to get Hank a little hard right away.

He starts touching Connor everywhere, along his ribs and his thighs, on the back of his neck. He’s thought a lot in the past few weeks about how Connor seemed to melt against his palms when they kissed in the classroom, and Connor’s reaction doesn’t disappoint the second time around. He goes limp, putty in Hank’s hands, all whimpers and sighs. A gasp, when Hank squeezes the crotch of his jeans, and again when Hank sucks hard on the skin of his neck, working up the beginnings of a hickey. It’s a thrilling prelude, good on its own, even better when Hank thinks that this is just the beginning of their night together.

Hank nips at the fresh hickey and Connor, with a chest-rattling _mmm_ , loses his grip on the counter behind him. He slips and hits a pan with his elbow; it clatters against the counter, far louder than Hank expected. He grabs it to try and silence the noise, but it’s too late, the damage is done.

The two of them stand there for a minute, stock still, listening for the sound of soft footsteps overhead.

“I think we’re okay,” Hank murmurs. Hank watches the apple of Connor’s throat bob when he swallows hard. “Fuck,” says Hank to himself. He knows what he has to do.

He bends down and, with a strength he didn’t know he still had, sweeps Connor off his feet. Connor yelps and clings to his neck.

“Hank!”

“Hey, you’re supposed to be quiet.”

“I can walk,” says Connor, in a whisper.

Hank chuckles and gives him another boost, securing his grip, then starts out of the kitchen. “Are you not enjoying this?”

Connor whimpers noncommittally and buries his face in Hank’s neck.

When they reach the foot of the stairs, Connor says, “Don’t forget my bag.”

“You can come downstairs and get your bag when we’re done.”

“No, it has things I need in it.”

Hank doesn’t know what that means, but Connor packing things he ‘needs’ for sex sounds fucking incredible, so he bends down enough to grab the little duffel with his free hand, Connor hanging from his neck.

As Hank climbs the stairs, Connor turns redder and redder.

“What?” Hank asks.

“You’re very strong.”

Hank can’t help it: he smirks. “You think?” Connor nods. “You got any other compliments you wanna lay on me?”

“No, not really.”

Hank laughs, only they’re in the upstairs hallway now, so he has to do it silently. Cole’s room is down the hall from the master, with a bathroom between them, at least. The door to the master is sitting ajar, the lights off. Hank backs inside. He made the bed this morning and cleaned the stray clothes off the floor, knowing he’d be having company, but he struggles to put Connor on the bed gracefully. It ends up more like _dumping_ than _placing_.

Hank stands over him, panting. The duffel bag slides off his shoulder. He reaches for the beside lamp, then reconsiders.

“Lights on or off?” he asks Connor, who is peeking up at him, wearing a tiny smile.

“On, I think.” Connor tilts his head to the side. “I want to be able to see you.”

Hank grins and flips on the lights.


	9. ridiculous

 

 

“Connor, this is ridiculous.”

“Keeping track of your sexual health isn’t ridiculous, it’s a good habit that contributes to an overall healthy lifestyle.”

“Not the getting tested the part, the handing me your lab work-up before we fuck part.”

Connor looks down at the paper in question, which he’d retrieved from his duffel bag to give to Hank. Except Hank doesn’t want it, so now he’s standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed clutching his clean bill of health. “I thought,” says Connor, “this information would be important to you.”

Hank is reclined on the bed, propped up by his elbows. “Yeah, but you coulda just… told me. I would’ve believed you.” He raises an eyebrow. “Like, do you expect me to whip out my receipt from the last time I got tested?”

Connor looks around. Hank makes that sound like an odd request—perhaps because they’ve already had sex? “Is it not in your house somewhere?”

Hank shuts his eyes and sighs. It’s difficult for Connor to shake the feeling that he’s done something wrong, but he can’t fathom what that might be. He has his very specific reasons for bringing his lab work into the bedroom and ensuring that Hank sees it. Perhaps Connor has just… explained himself poorly.

“Hank.” Connor speaks slowly and carefully. “I want us to have unprotected sex. Do you understand?”

Hank doesn’t react, apart from his mouth opening slightly.

“Were you tested in the time between your previous sexual encounter and our time in your car?”

Hank still says nothing. His eyes have glazed over, and he strokes his beard.

“Hank? Please be honest with me?”

Connor has to step toward the bed in order to snap him out of it. Hank clears his throat. “Sorry—” He indicates the lab work. “This is because you want me to fuck you bareback?”

Connor narrows his eyes. He isn’t sure where he went wrong in his explanation. “Yes,” he says. “Was that unclear?”

“Uh.” Hank coughs and sits up. “Not—you know what, I got it now.”

“Are you able to do that safely?” Connor asks, resisting the urge to cross his fingers.

“Uh, yup,” Hank croaks. “I’m all set. I’m good to go. I can do that.”

Connor smiles. He smiles so broadly he doesn’t have enough mouth to contain it, and he feels his lips twitching with the excess delight.

Hank stares at him, then extends a hand. “Put the paperwork away and get over here.”

Connor tucks his lab work back into his duffel and perches on the end of the bed, twisting to face Hank, who still seems to be recovering from the shock.

“I seriously thought you were gonna pull out a ball gag or something,” he says in an exhale.

Connor can’t discern if that’s a sigh of disappointment or relief. “Would you like me to bring one next time?”

Hank squints at him, leaning away. “Do you have… that?”

Connor shrugs. He doesn’t, but he could acquire one, if Hank wanted him to.

The absence of a ball gag does not seem to be a top concern of Hank’s at the moment, as he scoots down the bed toward Connor, reaching for him. “You, come here.” Hank cups Connor’s cheek and drags their mouths together, kissing Connor hard, like not a second has passed since they left the kitchen.

Hank is very good at kissing. He knows how to kiss in a way that’s surprising and stimulating and encouraging and enthusiastic, but never overwhelming. He knows how to kiss softly and how to kiss roughly. This skill is likely some combination of experience and natural talent, neither of which Connor can contend with to any degree, so he finds himself just trying to reciprocate in kind or at the very least keep up, rather than simply liquifying in Hank’s arms.

But then Hank starts touching him, running his hands over his thighs and hips, untucking his shirt, laying a massive palm against the side of Connor’s neck and letting his fingers tangle in Connor’s hair. His hands are big enough that, if he closed both around Connor’s throat, his fingers would surely overlap. The thought sends an impressive surge of blood to Connor’s groin. Everything Hank is doing sends blood to his groin, and he wants—he wants to make Hank as hard as Hank makes him. He wants to be good for Hank, to be active and alluring, not to be liquid.

He struggles with that. He struggles to solidify enough to put an arm around Hank’s neck and another on his thigh, a thigh that’s easily twice the size of Connor’s own. He struggles to nip at Hank’s lips and to run his fingers, even lazily, through Hank’s beard.

Hank moves to Connor’s neck. Connor gets the sense that Hank is a fan of his neck. Connor already regrets allowing himself to receive a hickey, and preemptively regrets allowing himself to receive another one; odds are that at least one of the marks will show above the collar of his shirt, and he’ll face some difficult questions at school. If only the feeling of Hank sucking on his skin didn’t make his eyes roll into the back of his head and his breathing go shallow and render him temporarily incapable of logical preventative measures.

Hank pauses his work to mutter against Connor’s skin, “Christ, you’re so fucking hot.”

Connor opens his mouth and the noise that comes out is, “Hhhnnm.” Hank’s hands slip between his sweater and his shirt, and Hank slides the sweater up and over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him, where it will probably become wrinkled if Connor doesn’t remember to pick it up after they’re done. But he’ll remember.

Hank pushes him back onto the bed and crawls on top of him, starting to undo the buttons of his shirt. Hank’s duvet smells like Hank, like store-brand detergent and dust and pine, and a little bit of old cigarette smoke. It’s… comfortable. It’s not like being on his knees in the back of an SUV, getting rug burn and neck cramps. He didn’t mind any of that, of course, because he wanted Hank and Hank wanted him and that was their option in the moment. But it’s nice to have Hank on top of him, kissing along his clavicle, and be comfortable. It’s nice to see the flash of blue eyes when Hank glances up at him—they are good eyes, they flatter the grey-white of his hair.

Logically Connor knows that Hank is too young to be fully grey and that the reasons for the early change can’t be positive, and yet Connor likes the way it looks. This is one of many contradictions he’s discovered in his attraction to Hank.

Last time they were rushing, trying to scratch an itch, trying to give each other the best experience in the shortest amount of time. Tonight’s pace is different: slower, less urgent. Hank takes his time undoing the buttons of Connor’s shirt. He presses his lips to the exposed skin as he moves down, stopping to worship particular spots with his tongue, and after a minute or two of this Connor realizes that Hank has chosen the spots on his chest with prominent moles for the honor. Connor smiles and shuts his eyes and tries to enjoy this—when he was a child, he associated his moles with the warts on the noses of witches in stories, and assumed they made him ugly—and even as an adult, no one has shown quite as much interest in them as Hank.

Hank reaches Connor’s stomach and finishes opening the buttons. He runs his hand over the pale, smooth skin of Connor’s abdomen, groaning in the back of his throat. Connor shivers at the way Hank’s fingertips and hot breath disturb the strip of curly dark hair leading downwards from his belly button. Hank lays his tongue at the exposed spot right above Connor’s fly and Connor’s whole body twitches; Hank licks from that spot up to his belly button, wetting the hair and teasing the ultra-sensitive skin of his lower stomach, and Connor swallows a gasp. He writhes at the stimulation and winds his fingers into the duvet. Hank laughs, a low sound, dark and masculine—it sends the same heat to Connor’s crotch as the sensation of Hank’s tongue a moment before.

Hank’s hand gives Connor’s ass a tight squeeze. He helps Connor sit up and shrug out of his shirt, then pushes him to lay back again. At first Connor allows this because he is still liquid, still malleable, still wooed by Hank’s confidence in pursuit of what he desires. Hank is sure of how he wants Connor, and Connor is sure of Hank.

Then a memory flashes through Connor’s head, clear as the night it occurred: Hank coming in him, slamming into his ass, shocked and awed at the feeling of Connor’s spit-slicked fingers on his nipple. The evidence suggests that Hank experiences unexpected pleasure from Connor taking small but unique initiatives in their lovemaking.

And Connor wants to be good for Hank. To be as surprising and delightful to Hank as Hank is to him.

Hank has gone to work removing Connor’s belt. His focus is laser-like, and so he starts when Connor sits up suddenly and reaches for his face.

Connor brushes his lips against Hank’s. It is easier than he anticipated to maneuver Hank from this position to another. With minimal prompting, perhaps overwhelmed by the series of small kisses Connor peppers along his beard and neck, Hank plops down on the edge of the bed. Hank watches Connor step back from the bed and remove his own jeans—they’ve become painfully restrictive, and he winces taking them off around his hard-on.

Connor steps between Hank’s legs and kneels. Hank smiles, or rather smirks, down at Connor, and Connor—Connor touches himself over his underwear, lip between his teeth.

“All right,” Hank murmurs, and begins to undo his belt and fly. “All right. Yeah, okay.”

Hank gets up enough to remove his pants and Connor tries to help with that process. It’s only once Hank’s trousers are off that Connor notes his legs—Hank never made it out of his pants when they were in the car, so this is Connor’s first time seeing his legs bare. They’re hairy and barrel-thick like the rest of him, and he has a large tattoo on one of his thighs. Hank could probably choke Connor with those thighs while Connor sucks him off, but Connor isn’t sure how to ask him to do that, or if Hank would recoil at the thought of choking Connor, via his thighs or otherwise. So it’ll have to wait.

Connor scoots closer to Hank, to the tent in his boxers. Connor slips his fingers beneath the elastic of Hank’s underwear and tugs them down, freeing Hank’s big, red, half-hard dick, and pressing a kiss to the underside of Hank’s belly in the meanwhile.

Connor licks his lips, examining what he’s got to work with. Hank lets his head fall back and sighs. Last time, they didn’t get to enjoy the blowjob itself as anything more than a prelude. Connor wants this time to be different. He wants it to be good for Hank, like _really_ good for Hank.

Hank sneaks a look down at him, an eyebrow raised, puzzled as to why Connor has spent ten seconds staring at his dick and not… doing anything. Connor meets his gaze for a beat. Blue eyes.

He takes the base of Hank’s cock in one hand and his balls in the other, finally. He still doesn’t use his mouth—instead he runs his fingers along Hank’s considerable length and smears them in the precum gathered at the head. He reviews the stickiness on the pads of his index and middle finger and, not thinking much of it, puts those fingers in his mouth.

It doesn’t taste good, but that’s not the point. The point is to glance up at Hank, still sucking, and watch his pupils double in size. Satisfying.

“Connor.” Hank’s voice is a growl. “Are you gonna suck my dick or not?”

Connor gives Hank’s balls a disciplinary squeeze, for talking back. He decides he’d prefer to answer the question orally but not verbally.

He wraps his hand around the base of Hank’s cock and guides it toward his mouth. His first move is to kiss the tip, then lap up the precum he didn’t gather with his fingers. Above him, Hank sighs again. Hank’s dick has gotten harder just from Connor looking at it, and now that Connor has begun to touch him, he’s fully erect. The heat coming off his cock is soothing in a strange way; Connor licks a stripe up the side and then presses the shaft to his cheek, feeling just how hot Hank has become.

Connor would like to think he has some ownership over Hank’s heat, having brought him to this state, that the intensity of what happens between them is emotional as well as somatic. Perhaps that’s naive of him, when Hank has only said he loves Connor one time. Then again, Connor has never said the words outright himself. Double standards—not fair.

He begins to lick at Hank’s cock a bit faster, less savoring and more devouring. Hank stirs in place, impatient, and slips his fingers into Connor’s hair.

Connor’s eyes fall closed. He lathes his tongue up the underside of Hank’s cock and feels Hank’s fingers tighten in his hair. Connor can’t help it: he moans, low and quiet; Hank tugs, and he gets a fraction louder.

“Not too loud,” Hank mutters, winding Connor’s forelock around his finger. He must know that the more he pulls at Connor’s hair, the harder it becomes not to moan—there’s a hint of a smile in his voice. Connor lets out another, smaller whine of frustration, and slips the head of Hank’s cock between his lips. “There we fuckin’ go. That’s it.” Connor takes a couple more inches. “Fuck yeah.”

With Hank’s hands in his hair, Connor struggles to maintain the same teasing pace as before. He takes more of Hank, faster, hollowing his cheeks around Hank’s girth. He pulls all the way off and starts again, inhaling saliva and precum. The heat of Hank’s cock, now against his tongue, makes him feel lightheaded; he feels wetness on his chest and realizes he has started to drool, spit dribbling over his lips and down his chin and onto his body. He slurps to try and suck some of it up, and Hank goes, “Jesus, Connor.”

He attempts to bob his head and overdoes it, Hank’s cock hitting the back of his throat and making him gag. He doesn’t mind it and he knows Hank doesn’t mind it, but it wasn’t what he was trying to do. “Easy,” says Hank. Swallowing excessive saliva and frustration, Connor gives it another go, and this time he gets a good rhythm going. Hank tugs approvingly on his hair.

Connor bobs his head up and down on Hank’s cock over and over, looking up for some hint as to how it’s affecting Hank, but Hank has his head back and Connor can’t see his face. This is definitely working for Connor, who keeps having to squeeze himself through his underwear. Hank finally drops his head, and Connor can see the glossy look in his eyes—good—Connor takes his full length again, on purpose this time, and chokes loudly.

“Fucking shit,” Hank grunts. His hips flick forward, making Connor gag a second time.

Connor slides off Hank’s dick. He’s had an idea. “Do you want to fuck my mouth?”

Hank doesn’t say anything right away. He sometimes takes time to process these kinds of things, Connor has noticed, and it’s best not to rush him. Connor busies himself wiping spit from his lips and squeezing his cock through his underwear.

Hank manages, “Yup.” Connor smiles. Hank gets to his feet slowly, hands still tangled in Connor’s hair. “Take it,” he says. Connor obeys, guiding Hank’s cock back to his lips. Hank gives him a single, shallow thrust. “Okay?” Connor can’t speak or nod, so he gives a thumbs up with the hand that isn’t grasping Hank’s balls.

Hank thrusts again, and again. He holds Connor’s head in place with his hair and fucks into Connor’s mouth rapidly, not deep enough to hurt, but fast enough that Connor’s tongue and lips must feel incredible on his cock. Hank’s erection has gotten harder and somehow hotter. The warm weight pummeling Connor’s mouth and the satisfied grunts Hank makes as he works drown out a humming self-consciousness that’s pursued Connor so far tonight—he can’t think of what he is or isn’t doing right when Hank has him by the hair and can’t stop fucking his mouth.

“Fuck,” Hank breathes. “Fuck, I’m gonna come.” He pushes Connor off his dick, releasing his grip on Connor’s hair.

“Then come. You can come on my face.”

“Connor, if I come now I don’t know when I’m gonna be able to fuck you.”

Connor pouts. Despite Hank’s reluctance, he’s got his dick in his hand and pumps it. He clearly wants to orgasm. “You should’ve told me you were experiencing erectile dysfunction—there are medications that could—”

“Now I’m gonna come on your face for saying that.”

Connor’s pout becomes a grin as Hank steps toward Connor, jerking off faster and faster, his jaw clenched. Connor waits, watching him closely. Hank’s hand is big enough it makes his dick look normal-sized. Connor should close his eyes and open his mouth, most likely, but he wants to look, so he settles for just the former. He feels a bit like Sumo, on all fours with his tongue out, gazing up at Hank excitedly—this is not a thought that Hank would want him to share. He would find it weird. Unsexy.

“Holy shit,” Hank says, breathing shallow, pumping hard. Nostrils flaring as he stares into Connor’s open mouth. “Fuck—” Hank’s thighs stiffen and flinch and he groans when he climaxes, taking Connor’s hair in his fist. A twitch runs through the entirety of his massive body—he jacks off on Connor’s face, as promised, getting cum on his forehead and in his hair and in his—eye.

Ow.

Hank is still holding onto Connor’s hair while he recovers from his orgasm, so Connor has to untangle himself with one hand while the other stays clamped over his eye. Hank falls back onto the bed, too fucked up to notice what’s happened, though he probably finds it hard to miss Connor running into his bathroom.

“I’ll be right back,” Connor manages, hand still cradling his eye. He has to fumble for the door because his depth perception has vanished.

He fumbles similarly through the process of removing his contact lens and washing his face. He flips on the light to reveal the damage: his eye has gone red and swollen, his nose is running openly.

It is… unsexy.

“Connor?” says Hank’s voice, from the other side of the bathroom door. “You okay?”

Connor almost says what he feels, which is _no_ , but it might alarm Hank. He doesn’t want to cause alarm. “Yes.” Hank makes a noise that suggests he’s unconvinced. “Will you hand me my bag?”

“Yeah, but can you tell me what just happened?”

Connor frowns at his irritated eye and runny nose in the mirror. Hank will have to see them eventually, he supposes, and he can’t go on with one contact lens in. Connor shuffles over to the door and opens it enough for Hank to see his face.

Hank has put his cock back in his underwear and stands there looking flushed, holding Connor’s duffel. He takes one look at Connor and says, “ _Are_ you okay?”

“You got semen in my eye.”

Hank’s mouth hangs open. “Fuck—really? I’m sorry, Con.”

“It’s not your fault. I should’ve closed my eyes.”

Hank shoves the door open, and Connor’s vision is too wonky to stand in his way. “I’m coming in,” says Hank, already in the bathroom. “How can I help you? What do you need?”

“My contacts case and solution. And my glasses.”

“Got it.”

Hank gets to his knees and starts digging through Connor’s bag on the bathroom floor. Connor has one contact on a fingertip and removes the other in the mirror. He’s now quite blind; his own reflection is a blur of colors and shapes.

“What do you want first?”

“Glasses, please.”

Hank pulls himself up off the ground—he, too, is a blur of colors and shapes, if a much larger one. He’s holding something Connor suspects is his glasses. “Uh… do I—”

“Can you put them on? My hands are full,” Connor says, turning to face Hank. He feels a familiar sliding pressure against his temples and then—he can see Hank’s face in detail. “Thank you.” Hank looks a bit flustered.

“This is what a contacts case looks like, right?” Hank holds up the plastic container. Connor smiles.

“Yes. Can you unscrew the covers?”

“I think so?”

Hank makes the process of putting his contacts away considerably easier, like having an assistant on the operating room floor. “I’m sorry,” says Connor, as he closes up the case.

Hank puts a hand in the small of Connor’s back. “ _I’m_ sorry, actually. I'm the one who jacked off into your eye, so.” Connor has lost some but not all of his erection; the warmth of Hank’s palm against the bare skin of his back helps keep it alive.

Connor wipes water from his reddened eye and sighs at his now-bespectacled reflection in the bathroom mirror. He can see Hank staring at his neck. “I shouldn’t put my contacts back in tonight.”

“Oh yeah?” says Hank, stepping behind Connor, sliding his arms around Connor’s torso.

“I’ll have to wear my glasses.”

“Oh no,” says Hank, and kisses the nape of Connor’s neck. There’s something odd in his tone.

“Is that okay?”

Hank glances up, meeting Connor’s eyes in the mirror. “I was being sarcastic.”

“Oh.” Connor knew he recognized that inflection. He blinks rapidly and looks down.

“Your glasses are hot, Connor.” Hank’s chest rumbles against Connor’s back when he speaks, low and soft. It distracts Connor from the cognitive dissonance of Hank finding his glasses _hot_. “Kind of cements the whole hot-for-teacher thing.”

Connor flushes. “Don’t say ‘hot-for-teacher’!”

“But I am.”

Connor wiggles in Hank’s arms, turning himself to face Hank outright. “Can you please be hot-for-Connor instead?”

Hank presses their foreheads together. “Where are you getting the idea that I’m not hot-for-Connor?”

Connor doesn’t know how to answer that question, or if Hank is looking for a real answer. He pulls away from Hank to wipe another stray tear from his bad eye—a reminder of embarrassment. “This was not ideal for the mood,” he says, stating a fact.

Hank’s expression changes. Connor can’t identify the nature of the look Hank is giving him now, but it’s different than the easy smile he wore before. His eyes narrow and his lips purse. Connor doesn’t know what it is but—it’s not happiness. Connor swallows hard. He anticipates that whatever Hank says next will be critical, and likely deserved.

But it isn’t. The thing Hank has been waiting to say is, “Let’s go back to bed.” He steps back and slips his hands around Connor’s. Connor stares at their fingers linking together—he doesn’t know if they’ve ever held hands. He can’t recall it if they have, which suggests they haven’t. “Do you need me to carry you again?” Hank asks.

“No.”

Back in the bedroom, Hank tells him, “Lie down. It’s your turn.”

“Don’t you need me to help you get another erection?”

“No—I mean, _yes_ , but not right this second.” Hank pats the bed. “Come on. I need another ten minutes, let’s work on you.”

Hank seems sure. Connor is less sure, but he trusts Hank, so he lays back on the bed as instructed.

Hank stands over him and runs a hand up his leg. “There we go. Good job, Connor.”

Connor warms at the praise, at the funny feeling in his stomach. Hank keeps touching him—his calves, his knees, his thighs—beneath his boxer briefs, squeezing his ass. Connor gulps and sticks his fingers into his own hair. Hand still on Connor’s ass, Hank dips down and presses his tongue against the wet spot at the front of Connor’s underwear, rubbing the warm fabric against the soaked head of Connor’s cock, and Connor has to cover his mouth with his palm to contain the scream.

“I think you liked that,” says Hank in a husky laugh, his breath still hot against that wet spot. Connor wants him to do it again, and he does, because he understands. Hank is right, too: Connor likes it a lot, and he likes Hank observing what he likes, too, in a strange way. It means Hank is paying attention to him, noting his reactions, and tailoring his behavior to appeal to Connor’s preferences; he’s thoughtful. It also means that Hank, smugly, knows he can ruin Connor just right; he’s a very good fuck.

Connor looks down his chest, taking in the sight of Hank continuing to suck his dick through his underwear. It is almost, but not quite, a perfect sight. “Hank.”

“Mmmh?” says Hank, because his tongue is busy.

“Take off your shirt? Please?”

Hank stops moving. He sits up and undoes his buttons. He shrugs off his over-shirt, but hesitates to remove the t-shirt he’s got underneath. “You wanted the lights on. You’re gonna have trouble pretending you’re not fucking an old guy.”

“You are middle-aged, and I don’t want to pretend.” Hank shakes his head. “Are you uncomfortable?” Connor asks.

“Nope, just trying to figure out which of my fucked up wet dreams you crawled out of.”

Hank tugs his undershirt up and off. He’s sweating lightly and it makes his hair stick to his chest. As always, he looks like he could crush two Connors, if he wanted to. It’s difficult to understand how Hank doesn’t see the appeal.

Hank returns eagerly to Connor’s now dampened underwear. He squeezes Connor’s dick through the fabric, and Connor whimpers. Then he—lightly, barely even making contact—runs his fingernails up the outline of Connor’s shaft. Connor’s hips buck right off the mattress and Hank laughs. It feels like an eternity since Hank started his teasing, so when he pulls Connor’s underwear down his hips and the air hits Connor’s erection, it’s a relief, and it sends Connor’s heart into his throat.

He lost some of his arousal with the eye incident, but his hardness has returned in full. Hank appreciates that, grinning, pulling Connor’s cock toward him and watching it spring back into place. He gets up and goes to grab lube from his bedside drawer, and Connor takes the opportunity to give himself a couple of diplomatic strokes, just enough to hold him over while he waits. He listens to the sound of the drawer opening and Hank rustling through it, his eyes on the ceiling. He should perhaps feel more exposed than he does, lying spread-eagled on Hank’s bed, naked, erect. From an evolutionary perspective, he’s consigned himself to death. But they aren’t wild animals, he supposes, and none of this makes much sense from an evolutionary perspective.

Hank returns to the bed and climbs over him, straddling his knees. Can Hank tell he’s thinking about evolution? If he can, does he have an opinion about it? Does he look at Connor and think, _a weird kid, but why not_?

Hank is lubing up Connor’s cock, stroking him slowly.

“Hank?”

“Yeah?”

Connor cranes his neck to peek at Hank. He considers how to phrase the question. No construction seems adequate. Connor lets his head fall back. “Never mind.”

Hank’s hand continues moving on Connor’s cock. It feels pleasant in its lack of urgency. Hank leans forward so he can look Connor in the eye. “You good?” Connor nods. “Okay, so do me a favor.” Hank cups Connor’s cheek with the hand that’s not on his dick. “You know I love that big sexy brain of yours, but try turning it off for a while.”

Connor’s lips part. He wets one with his tongue.

“I’m a detective, Connor. I can tell when you go places.” Hank bends down and kisses the center of Connor’s chest. “Right now I want you here. Come back to me.”

Connor closes his eyes. He tries, he really does, to empty his head. But all he can think is: _I’m doing poorly. Hank doesn’t like it. I’m not being good for Hank._

“Connor,” Hank growls. He lets go of Connor’s cock and starts sliding down Connor’s torso, kissing at his stomach. “You’re not doing it.”

“I’m trying,” says Connor, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”

The distress in Connor’s words flips a switch in Hank. He is instantly on top of Connor, holding his face, muttering reassurance. “Hey, hey. It’s not a bad thing. You’re not doing anything wrong. I’m just trying to get you to enjoy yourself, okay?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Hank kisses him hard; his beard tickles Connor’s chin and Connor’s glasses knock Hank’s nose. “You’re doing fucking great, and—you are fucking incredible. I’m just trying to give you the good time you deserve, okay? Connor?”

Connor’s eyes stay screwed shut. He nods weakly. He wants to believe what Hank is saying, wants it to be true. Hank wouldn’t lie to him.

But the words roll off his brain. He can’t make them stick. If he were more coherent, his training in psychology would remind him that one or two points of contradictory input can’t fix a lifetime of negative reinforcement.

“Guess I’m gonna have to show you what I mean,” Hank says. Connor opens one eye to watch Hank sliding back down toward his hips.

Hank takes the base of Connor’s dick in his hand. His fingers are so thick he can cover more than half of Connor’s length that way—it reminds Connor of jerking off thinking about Hank’s big hand instead of his own, that first night they sent each other silly dirty texts, months ago. The thought distracts him from the invisible weight sitting on his chest.

Hank’s hand pumps Connor intermittently while Hank leans down and swirls his tongue around the head of Connor’s cock, gathering precum. Connor lets out a shuddering breath, trying to narrow his focus, to think only of how good it feels and not—not of his performance of how good it feels. Hank takes the tip of Connor between his lips and sucks and yes, that is helping, helping him not to think. Hard to think when you’re fighting a gasp that wants to punch its way out of your throat.

Hank keeps pumping and working on the head, until he starts to take more of Connor into his mouth, until he takes all of Connor in his mouth without so much as a gag. He doesn’t even choke when Connor loses control and gives a desperate little thrust upward, instead pinning Connor’s hips to the bed with one of those massive hands. He holds Connor in place like that and keeps inhaling Connor’s cock, sucking in air through his nose while his saliva drips onto Connor’s balls.

Connor threads a hand through his own hair, and strokes Hank’s with the other. He wants to express to Hank how good it feels, that warm wet heat swallowing him like he’s nothing. He opens his mouth and the sound that comes out is, “Uhhhnn,” followed by, “Hank.”

Hank pulls off his cock with a slurp. A big hand pulls at Connor’s hips. Connor can’t stop thinking that every time Hank touches him—his brain screams _big, big_ over and over. “On your stomach. Show me your ass.”

Connor hears the pop of the lube opening as he turns over.

Fingers pinch his ass cheek. He wants Hank’s fingers. He wants Hank inside him. He wants to feel nothing except Hank. None of the rest is worth it.

Then there’s another pinch to his ass, a different kind of pinch. He takes a moment to recognize the sensation of teeth.

In a millisecond, Connor’s brain goes from screaming _big, big_ to screaming _mouth near ass, mouth near ass_.

Hank spreads his ass cheeks and Connor can feel Hank’s breath on his hole. He lets out a noise that’s more animal than human, a whine of longing. Hank fingers the tight ring of muscle and Connor spreads his legs wider, encouraging him to get closer, to make contact with his lips.

The first swipe of tongue is a tease. A joke.

And still, Connor yowls in excitement, like some kind of alleycat in heat.

“Noise, Connor,” says Hank in a harsh whisper. “If you can’t stay quiet I won’t do it.”

“No, I’ll be quiet. Please do it. Please do it, oh my god.”

“I wanna do it.” Hank’s hands grip Connor’s thighs, hard, dragging him a couple inches closer. “I wanna open you up with my tongue.” Connor’s dick twitches significantly, and Hank must see it, because he chuckles. “But you can’t scream.”

“Not going to scream,”Connor promises, burying his face in the duvet, inhaling that uniquely Hank scent. Connor’s glasses press painfully into the bridge of his nose, but he doesn’t care.

Hank lays the flat of his tongue against Connor’s asshole. Connor hopes, against all odds, that he can keep his promise.

He has thought about Hank eating his ass a hundred times while touching himself, almost as many times as he’s thought about Hank inside him or jerking him off. When Hank sent him that stupid, terrible video, and he sat through it twice, he thought about Hank doing what some ridiculous porn star did—he stopped watching and just listened to the sound and fingered himself until he came hard with Hank’s tongue in the front of his mind.

And now it’s happening. Hank’s fingers hold Connor’s hole open while Hank traces it, once, slowly, with his tongue.

“Shit,” says Connor, a whisper. His hands make fists in the duvet. He doesn’t like to swear but sometimes he just—doesn’t know another way to convey what he’s feeling. Sometimes the words just force themselves out. Like when Hank dips his tongue inside Connor for the first time and all Connor can say is, “Oh, fuck.”

Hank sucks on the curve of Connor’s cheek—a third hickey, one he won’t be able to see without a mirror—and sinks his finger into Connor’s hole. Hank’s teeth scraping across the soft, sensitive skin of his cheek is good, he likes it, but he wants Hank’s mouth instead of his fingers.

As if reading his mind, Hank tugs at Connor’s tightness with his finger and inserts his tongue in the tiny gap he creates. The sensation of both is too much for Connor, in the best way—he is too tight for a tongue and a finger and his hips tremble and it is _g_ _ood,_ a perfect excess.Hank wriggles his tongue and slides his finger another inch into Connor, who shudders and heaves an exhale. Hank is deep enough now to apply pressure to Connor’s prostate, and Connor’s hand goes straight to his dick when he feels the flash of searing pleasure.

Hank removes his finger and devotes his mouth to Connor’s hole, which is what Connor has been waiting for, which is what he wanted. With his tongue still inside, he puts his lips against Connor and sucks, hard. A groan tears from Connor’s throat—he stuffs his mouth against the duvet to muffle it. His knees are threatening to give out and he wouldn’t mind, really, being able to rub his cock against the bed while Hank eats him out.

Apparently Hank wants his knees to give out, too, because he withdraws his tongue and starts licking at Connor’s asshole relentlessly, opening him up with his mouth and his fingers. Connor melts into the mattress and Hank just keeps going, his beard rough on Connor’s ass. That roughness combined with the repetitive motion of his mouth wetting and working Connor’s hole is definitely going to chafe—this is an outcome Connor had never considered, in all his imagining. Physical evidence of Hank fucking him open with his tongue. A souvenir.

Connor can’t help it: he starts to grind against the duvet. He’s hard enough that it hurts, and his eyes have begun to water with the wealth of stimulation. Hank sinks his finger back into Connor and presses hard on his prostate—Connor says, “Fuck,” unacceptably loud if not for the duvet muffling him. Then Hank is removing his finger as fast as he put it in. He flicks Connor’s hole with his middle finger and thumb, casual, almost like he’s kidding. Connor, who has left a puddle of drool in the sheets, doesn’t get the joke.

Hank pulls Connor’s hips off the mattress again. Connor can’t survive without friction against his cock, so he moves to touch himself, but Hank’s hand grabs his wrist. “What’s gonna happen if you jerk off, Connor?”

Connor’s mind is not performing at optimal speeds and thus it takes him a moment to answer the question. “I’m going to come.” He’s ready, the pressure thrums in his dick, and if he could just get Hank’s mouth back on his hole for a moment, he’d come in a few strokes.

He feels the bed dimple, and a weight materializes against his back as Hank climbs over him. Hank crouches to speak in Connor’s ear, fingertips tracing Connor’s ribcage. “I want you to come from my cock.” He presses an open-mouth kiss to Connor’s neck. “So I’m not gonna let you touch yourself.”

“Okay,” Connor mumbles.

“You want to come from my cock, right?”

“Yes.”

Hank nips at his ear. “Good. That’s good, Connor. You’re doing great.”

Connor whines and rubs his cheek against the duvet.

Hank’s weight starts moving back down Connor’s body, returning to his ass. Hank’s fat fingers spread his cheeks again, and the pad of one traces his hole. Connor assumed Hank was done opening him up, but that proves untrue: Hank puts his mouth against Connor again and gives him as much of his tongue as he can. It is only a couple of inches, but a tongue is so unlike a finger; a couple of inches is all Hank needs to ruin Connor.

 _Don’t scream_ , says a knowing voice in the back of Connor’s mind, but the only reason he’s able to obey is his vocal chords giving out immediately, turning what would’ve been a full-body scream into a breathy, silent cry.

Connor’s cock throbs and twitches with each stroke of Hank’s tongue. He grips the duvet tightly to keep his hands from touching himself. An image flashes through his head of his wrists restrained, tied together, so he couldn’t jerk off if he wanted to. Something to consider in the future, when he is capable of consideration. Tomorrow he’ll be able look back on this and understand what Hank is doing—working him into desperation so that he begs for it. Hank’s strategy is effective enough that Connor can’t even recognize it for a strategy in the moment.

Hank goes back to what he was doing before, alternating his fingers and tongue and both at once. Connor is wet everywhere: sweat and saliva and tears from the overstimulation.

Hank swipes Connor’s prostate yet again—Connor is at the point where he can’t distinguish fingers from tongue—and Connor’s cock is just so full, so unattended, flinching like crazy. “Hank,” Connor gasps. “Hank, please.”

Hank sits up, stretching Connor with two fingers as absently as Connor plays with his coin. “Please what?”

Connor groans. “I wanna…”

“Oh yeah? You want something?”

Connor knows what he’s supposed to say, on some level, but all he can get out is, “Cock.”

Hank laughs, and Connor feels himself smiling through the haze of overstimulation and aching arousal. “You want cock?”

Connor nods. It’s the best he can do.

Hank slides his fingers out of Connor’s ass. Connor lifts his torso off the bed so he’s on all fours and watches Hank over his shoulder. Hank grabs the lube and starts slicking up Connor’s hole, and then his cock. Apparently he didn’t need much help from Connor to get his erection back after all, or perhaps the indirect stimulation of Connor sobbing into the mattress while getting eaten out was… enough.

As Connor stares at Hank’s dick, he gets the sense that something is different, and he realizes: no condom. “Oh,” he says, turning back to the headboard. “You’re going to do it raw.”

“You asked me to. Did you forget?”

“I got distracted.”

Hank chuckles, and Connor feels lips on the small of his back. He looks back over his shoulder; he wants to watch Hank enter him. His asshole feels so—used, and yet not used at all, painfully empty, and the only solution is Hank.

Hank presses the head of his cock against Connor’s hole and Connor sighs heavily. He rolls his neck. Waits for the intense stretch.

Instead Hank slides his cock up, rubbing the length against Connor’s very sensitive, very desperate hole. Connor’s cock twitches violently.

“Hank,” he says, or rather begs. That’s the point he’s at, begging for it.

Hank’s hand slides up the side of Connor’s chest, then down to his stomach. “Mmm.”

“ _Hank_.”

“You know, I like you saying my name, but you’re not being clear about what you want from me.”

Connor screws his eyes shut. “I want you to fuck me. Please.”

“Oh,” says Hank, with a laugh. Connor decides he hates this man. Hates him, and his giant hands, and his giant good dick that he knows how to use too well. He especially hates how Hank has somehow obliterated the anxiety that had Connor incapacitated and ready to cry a mere fifteen minutes ago, and how for all this teasing Connor feels remarkably taken care of. He feels safe.

Safe enough to say things like, “Please fuck me hard. I want it hard.” Yes, Connor just—hates that.

“Oh, fuck. Sure.” Hank’s acting breaks for a second, and Connor feels something that isn’t sexual balloon warmly in his chest. Hank is good.

Hank pulls at his thighs, bringing him to the edge of the bed, so he can stand while he fucks Connor, who’s on all fours. The bed creaks when Connor adjusts his knees. _Quiet_. Connor needs to stay quiet.

It’s not going to be easy. He’s never been this hard and ready in his life. Connor is going to come in seconds, whenever Hank decides to let him jerk off. Or whenever Hank decides to jerk Connor off himself.

Hank’s hands are on Connor’s hips, lining up. Connor feels that same thing he felt before, the head of Hank’s cock against his hole. This time it doesn’t slip away but into him. That first inch is always the hardest for him, usually, but tonight he feels himself sliding back another couple inches onto Hank’s cock. Taking more. He’s hungry.

“Fuck,” says Hank. His nails dig into the skin of Connor’s hips. “And here I thought we were gonna go slow. Make it special.”

“You’re being pedantic,” Connor whispers, the wind vacating his lungs as Hank sinks deeper into his ass.

“Hell, I love it when you get fresh with me.” In a single thrust, Hank gives Connor the rest of his cock. Connor’s mouth falls open, wide open. A tiny moan escapes the back of his throat. “Makes me wanna break you.”

It’s physically impossible, but Connor feels as though the pounding of blood in his cock is audible, like he can hear it in his head. “Do it, then.”

Hank thrusts into him twice with the entirety of his length and Connor is already moaning like he’s half an hour into being fucked. “Quieter,” Hank growls, then slams into Connor for a third time—Connor clamps his hand over his mouth to suppress the sounds he can’t help making. “Good boy,” says Hank, with an approving smack to Connor’s ass.

Hank is about as good at sex as he is at kissing, perhaps even better. Ever since the SUV—no, ever since they matched on that app—Connor has wondered how many all-too-willing twinks Hank has fucked the way he fucks Connor, because the effortlessness with which he goes about it would suggest a high number, but he’s also a relatively recent widower with a child. So maybe it’s a natural talent.

It doesn’t matter; Connor is merely curious, as he’s been his entire life, and he shouldn’t care who Hank has been with before if he’s with Hank now and they love each other. What does matter is Hank’s inarguable skill: he knows how to drag pornographic noises from Connor’s throat with every flick of his hips. He’s still going slow and already Connor has wrecked his palm, slobbering and biting to contain himself. Connor doesn’t know what will become of him when Hank starts fucking him for real—he remembers what that’s like, and the first time he wasn’t as worked up as he is right now. So close. Hanging off the edge.

Hank puts his hands on Connor’s shoulders and pulls Connor’s whole body down on his cock. Connor has to remove his hand to wipe drool on the sheets, and he gets out an, “Oh, fuck, Hank.”

With a satisfied grunt, Hank leans forward, pressing his chest against Connor’s back. He wraps an arm around Connor’s torso, his breath scalding on the back of Connor’s neck. “Have I mentioned that I love it when you say my name?” Connor mewls in response. “The first time you said it—” Hank’s hips slam into Connor’s ass. White flickers across Connor’s vision. “—I thought about making you say it like this.”

Hank pulls almost all the way out and stays like that for a moment, and Connor drowns in the emptiness.

Hank pushes back in torturously slow. Really, it is like torture—Connor reaches behind himself and grabs at Hank’s hips, trying to drag them closer, but Hank doesn’t acknowledge his desperation.

He does acknowledge Connor’s cock—for the first time in what feels like hours, Hank takes Connor in his hand and strokes him once, slowly, from base to tip. Connor sighs—even a little stimulation has him feeling more sane. “Does that feel good?” Hank mutters into Connor’s hair.

“Yeah,” Connor pants. “Can you do it again?” Hank obliges, even slower this time, fingers moving down Connor at a glacial pace. Hank is holding Connor off the bed, so Connor can reach back and thread his fingers into Hank’s hair. Hank’s teeth scrape the shell of Connor’s ear. “Again, please.”

“No,” says Hank softly, and drops Connor’s dick. “I think that’s enough of that for now.” He pulls all the way back out, like he did a moment ago, but rather than maintaining the torture pace, he slams back into Connor in a swift motion.

And then he doesn’t do anything.

Connor is dying. He is _dying_.

“Hank, please, fuck me.”

“I am fucking you, Connor.”

“Fuck me _harder_.”

Hank makes a sound of consideration. “All right.” He drops Connor’s torso, sending Connor face-first into the mattress. Connor’s glasses come off and he can’t be bothered to fumble for them—there’s not much for him to see right now other than the mattress.

Hank keeps his promise: he fucks Connor harder.

In actuality, he wasn’t fucking Connor before, not in the true sense of the word. All of that was teasing, prelude. This, Hank pounding into him over and over, hips slapping his ass—pulling Connor’s hair the way Hank knows he likes it—Connor moaning uncontrollably into the mattress—they’ve both been waiting for it. Out of breath to moan, Connor mumbles, repeating Hank’s words: “Break me…”

He isn’t talking to Hank, but Hank must overhear him say it, because he groans, “Holy fucking shit,” like Connor has just done something amazing.

Connor is loud. He knows he’s loud. In life, however, he is not especially loud, and he’s often thought that his extreme vocalization during sex might be related to his expression of release—here is a space where he _can_ be loud, where he should be.

Except that tonight, he shouldn’t. And it’s not a bad thing, he doesn’t mind. This is certainly an improvement over him and Hank doing nothing at all and he of course doesn’t want to leave Cole with any kind of trauma. So he tries, gives it everything he has. Thus far tonight he’s done a passable job, even with his cock threatening to come at any light touch for an eternity, now.

But when Hank starts pounding him outright, that pent up energy needs somewhere to go, needs someone to pay it mind. If Hank’s not going to let him come, he’s going to need to moan. And not little moans he can muffle in the palm of his hand.

The sounds begin to climb out of him unbidden. They escape around his hand, the fist he shoves in his mouth. They scrape at his throat every time Hank buries himself in Connor’s ass, and Hank is burying himself in Connor’s ass again and again.

Hank tries to assist—his hand joins Connor’s, covering his mouth, and it drowns out more of the noise. That works for a little while, but as Hank keeps fucking him, Connor gets louder. His dick is harder, it’s dripping precum onto Hank’s sheets, and he’s barely been touched. Of course Connor gets louder. 

The movement of Hank’s hips stalls out. He removes his hand from Connor’s mouth. “Connor, that’s so hot, but you gotta be quiet, babe.”

Connor inhales a wet breath. “I need help.”

“Yeah, what can I do?”

“Pillow—”

“Oh, yeah. Fuck, I’m tired of standing anyway.” Hank pulls out and scoops Connor up with an arm under his hips, lifting him the same way he sometimes lifts Cole, as though he were a sack of flour, and not even an especially heavy sack of flour. He deposits Connor further up the bed and hands him a pillow, which Connor hugs to his face. “You want your glasses?” Hank asks.

“I don’t think I need to be able to see this pillow clearly.”

“Then I’m putting them on the nightstand before I crush them.”

Hank shoves Connor’s legs apart and climbs on top of him. Connor’s dick is against the sheets again now, and while it’s a slight relief, it probably won’t be enough to make him come. In this position he can get a better sense of Hank’s incredible size, looming over him, getting ready to fuck him into the mattress.

Hank lines up again and pushes back inside of Connor, then lays forward. Connor can feel the curve of Hank’s stomach against his ass and lower back. Despite his glasses being off, when he looks to his side he can make out the trunks of Hank’s arms, caging him in. Between the size of his body and the size of his cock, Connor is lightheaded. He hopes Hank will put more weight on him as he goes, really drill him into the bed.

It starts up once more—the fucking, Hank’s rhythm inside him. Slower than it was when he had Connor moaning around both their hands, but faster than that first excruciating pace. Perhaps Hank thinks they need to work back up to him obliterating Connor’s ass, and he might be… right. The sensation of Connor’s dick between his stomach and the sheets, getting an inch or two of friction every time Hank thrusts, is a lot. Hank falls to his elbows, bringing his barrel chest to rest against Connor’s back, and that too is a lot. There is nothing about tonight that hasn’t been a lot. Connor is moderately impressed that he hasn’t come untouched, but he supposes he isn’t nineteen anymore.

Hank presses his face into the curve of Connor’s neck and, on a particularly deep thrust, groans. Hank’s voice gets lower when he fucks, Connor’s gets higher. Hank lifts his head and Connor turns his own, realizing they could kiss like this in the same moment Hank brings their mouths together. It is not an especially graceful kiss, what with the angle and Connor drooling everywhere, but it feels incredible to have Hank that deep in him and for their lips to meet. Like every inch of their bodies have come together, as close as two people can be.

He should not allow himself to get sentimental, but he does like that feeling, of being close to Hank. Right now, with the door locked and the lights on in Hank’s little bedroom on a quiet side street, they might as well be in their own universe. Connor loses track of everything that isn’t Hank—Hank inside of him, Hank on top of him, Hank kissing his neck. Hank murmuring in his ear, “You feel so fuckin’ good, Con.” The way his voice catches in his throat makes Connor believe that yes, he does feel pretty good, that the squeeze of his asshole around Hank’s cock might be fulfilling, that the sounds he makes could seem erotic, that the full-body flush he gets is beautiful, in a way.

After this intimate interlude, Hank speeds up again, and Connor buries his face in the pillow to contain his mounting groans. “Fuck,” Hank grunts above him. Connor can feel his thrusts getting a little less routine, a little more intense. “Fuck yeah.” Connor’s eyes start to water. He can’t help rubbing his hips into the bed, trying to find some relief for his aching, messy cock. And the pillow—he’s biting the pillow, now. His moans are rougher, he can sink his teeth around them. He doesn’t know how much longer he can hold on. He doesn’t know how much longer Hank is going to make him hold on.

“C’mere,” says Hank breathily. The bed shifts, and Connor feels himself being moved again—rolled onto his side, one of his legs propped up against Hank’s shoulder. Connor’s cock is exposed to the light again. Seeing it makes the need worse. He is so ready, visibly ready. He can see it, Hank can see it. “Gonna watch you come.”

The change in position disrupted Connor’s grip on the pillow, which turns out to be unfortunate, because he chokes on a genuinely feral sound when Hank wraps a hand around his cock. Connor fumbles behind his head and drags the pillow back to where he can continue hugging and biting it. That’s the only thing keeping him going right now.

Hank starts to touch him. Slow at first, but it doesn’t matter. It’s like Hank has reached inside of him and squeezed his lungs. Connor’s racing pulse carries through to every corner of his body—Hank might be able to feel it in his cock, too. Gradually, over the course of a minute or two, Hank’s careful strokes speed up. He’s still pounding into Connor on his side, and sometimes his thrusts mirror the movement of his hand on Connor’s dick. As his hand speeds up, faster and faster, pumping Connor closer to release, his hips can’t keep the pace, and he settles into a slow but eager tempo, each thrust a little deeper than the last. The fullness swells from Connor’s ass to his chest. He stuffs the corner of the pillow into his mouth, just to feel more full.

Connor is nearing it. The sensation of teetering on the edge is, as always, terrible and wonderful, but something about this night has amplified that heady state. It’s worse than Connor remembers; it’s better than he could have imagined.

His body tenses and his hips twist desperately—he can’t talk or else he’ll shout, so Hank has to read these visual markers to know when to push. His hand grows frantic on Connor’s dick, tugging the climax out of him.

Connor knew it would be intense when it finally happened. If their sex were just about orgasms, about getting off, he would’ve finished a while ago and had a second now, perhaps even after Hank was done fucking him. But the act of getting off is secondary to what’s taking place between them tonight: more important are intimacy, service, exploration. Setting a precedent for the rest of their time together. And also, _good_ orgasms. But not just orgasms.

So he expects the intensity when he comes, at last, on his stomach and the sheets, Hank pausing his thrusts to drain him completely. But it’s one thing to expect intensity and another to experience it, the actual degree of it, because intensity isn’t a descriptor as much as a scale. And this is… further up the scale than Connor anticipated. For the seconds it lasts, he experiences something akin to short-circuiting: his brain overheats and stutters into blank whirring, his back arches and then curls forward, he runs hot and cold and hot and hot and hot. He reaches for Hank, hoping to steady himself, because he feels a bit like he just got thrown off a cliff, and he wants someone to hold his hand.

He catches the meat of Hank’s upper arm. His nails dig trenches in Hank’s skin, and he hears Hank groaning somewhere above him. Connor can’t see anything—he isn’t sure if that’s the lack of glasses or if the orgasm has actually, truly broken him in the way it seems.

Connor begins to settle down. The sensation returns to his extremities, if slowly. He feels the pillow being tugged from his mouth, and Hank’s fingers on his chin. Hank kisses him, tongue swiping between Connor’s lips. It’s pleasant, though Connor doesn’t respond much, because he can’t.

Hank pulls away and pecks his temple. “That was a damn lot of jizz, Connor.”

“Mmmfmm.” Deep breaths. Connor has to remember to take deep breaths. “Are you going to finish?”

“Yeah, but you seem pretty fucked out.”

“No,” Connor wheezes. He presses his hand to the center of Hank’s chest. “You can do it.” He doesn’t mind the thought of overstimulation—it’ll keep him awake, and he wants Hank to use him.

Hank sighs and slips out of Connor, who whimpers, thinking maybe Hank has decided against coming inside him and feeling upset about it.

But Hank is just adjusting their position. He leaves Connor on his side and lays down behind him, like they’re going to spoon, but instead he tugs Connor’s ass against his hips and wraps an arm under Connor’s torso, pulling half of Connor’s weight on top of him. Connor doesn’t have much choice but to lie limp against him, and it’s just as well, because all the rigidity has left his body.

Hank pushes back inside. It’s true that this is—an overstimulation, what with Connor having just had a significant orgasm, but Connor melts against Hank and lets himself be overstimulated. Hank reaches forward and toys with Connor’s spent cock while he starts to move.

Connor lost track of Hank’s nearness to climax in all the activity surrounding his own, but he can tell as soon as Hank picks up a rhythm that this won’t take long. Hank fucks into him rapidly, with little grunts, fingering his nipple. “Connor.” When he speaks it rustles Connor’s hair. “Connor, fuck.” His thrusts grow less regular. He speeds up and slows down in rotation, making attempts. He gets closer each time and hugs Connor tighter to his chest.

“Ah, fuck—” Hank stiffens and slams up into Connor, hard, once, twice. He squeezes Connor’s torso against his own. The groan he makes is familiar to Connor, now, and makes him smile. He recalls what Hank said a little while ago, about wanting to make Connor say his name, and Connor realizes he had a fantasy of his own. To make Hank groan like he just did. He’s done it twice now, and it’s good every time. Connor has trouble imagining he’ll get tired of it. “Shit,” Hank mutters. His body goes slack.

They lie still for a moment, until Hank slides out of Connor’s ass, and they roll onto their backs. Then there is more stillness, more quiet, apart from the sounds of heavy breathing.

Connor’s eyes slip closed.

He sniffs. He opens his eyes. He grabs his glasses from the nightstand and rolls over to look at Hank. “We smell terrible.”

Hank snorts. “I always smell terrible.”

“That’s not true.”

Connor continues to stare at Hank, wearing a tiny smile. Waiting. Hank glances sideways, sees the look on his face, and groans. “I’m tired. Have pity on an old guy.”

“You don’t want to take a shower with me?”

Hank’s eyes skate down Connor’s naked body. “Fuck. No. I do want that.”

In the bathroom, Connor sees his stomach and chest in the mirror, and he understands what Hank meant by _a damn lot of jizz_. He also feels wetness on the back of his thighs as Hank starts the shower, and realizes with excitement that Hank’s cum is dripping out of him.

“Hank, look.” Connor shows it off, rubbing his fingers down the streaks. He’d hoped for this when he proposed they go unprotected.

Hank seems moderately horrified and maybe a little aroused. “Okay,” he says. “Get in the shower, you weirdo.”

It’s strange to hear _weirdo_ used as a term of endearment, but he can’t hear anything other than affection in Hank’s voice when he says it.

They stand under the water facing each other. Hank lets Connor suds up his hair, bending down to allow him access. Hank scrubs semen from various parts of Connor’s body. Connor puts his arms around Hank’s neck and kisses him, warm water pelting their shoulders. Hank sighs against him. It’s nice.

Hank pulls away but keeps his fingers on Connor’s chin. Connor leaves his arms wrapped around Hank’s neck. “I said… some stuff. While we were… was any of that too much for you?”

Connor carefully considers his reply. “I don’t think so. That was the best orgasm I’ve ever had.”

Hank’s eyes go wide. “Did you just say I was the best you’ve ever had?”

“I said the _orgasm_ was the best I’ve ever had.”

“The orgasm that I gave you.”

Connor shrugs. He doesn’t want to give Hank the satisfaction, but Hank takes it anyway.

Hank shuts off the water, practically singing to himself, “The best Connor’s ever had.”

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

Hank’s going to stay awake. He’s gonna do it.

After their shower, Connor wants a moment in the bathroom to himself to get changed, and Hank needs fresh underwear and a sleep shirt himself. But that only takes thirty seconds, and he makes the mistake of getting into bed, meaning he now has to—stay awake until Connor gets done in the bathroom.

But he’s going to do it! Not a problem. He’s not _that_ old.

Except he can’t remember the last time he had two orgasms in a day. It was before Cole was born, for sure. Maybe back when they were trying to get pregnant.

Hank can’t handle the thought of being that guy who passes out early. He made it through the shower, he can go another fifteen minutes. Connor’s all young and shit, he’s probably ready for a second round. Hank can’t give him that, but he doesn’t want Connor to know he can’t give him that.

The bathroom door finally opens and Connor steps out in—a matching pajama set. Pinstripes.

Hank starts to laugh.

“What is it?” says Connor, climbing onto the bed beside him.

“What are you _wearing_?” Hank’s own sleepwear is fresh boxers and a t-shirt from a Fun Run he didn’t actually participate in.

“Pajamas.” Of course Connor doesn’t understand that he looks like a fifties sitcom dad. “Do you not like them? I brought them because I thought they were nice.”

Hank’s big, shit-eating grin shrinks. Connor is looking down at him, wearing his glasses and his silly pajamas, pouting. Fuck.

“They’re cute,” Hank admits.

Connor smiles, pleased with himself, and crawls under the covers with Hank. He puts his head on Hank’s chest.

Hank recognizes that the only way to keep himself from passing out is to ask a question that’s been weighing on him for weeks. “Hey, Connor?”

“Mmhmm?”

“Who the hell told you you were bad at sex?”

Connor doesn’t answer for a beat, and Hank can’t see his expression at this angle, so he worries he might’ve stepped in it. Then Connor replies, “My ex.”

“Well, he—or she— _they_ were full of shit.”

Connor lifts his head to give Hank a withering look. “He, Hank. I’m gay.”

“I wasn’t gonna assume. I’m the one where you like both, so.”

“Bisexual?”

“Yeah, that one.” Hank knows the word, he just doesn’t like saying it. “And I know, you know, sometimes people date before they—realize.”

Connor lays back against the pillows. “I didn’t.”

“When’d you date this guy?”

“We started dating when I was twenty-two.” Connor hesitates. “And broke up when I was twenty-six.”

A dozen alarms go off in Hank’s brain. “You stayed with a guy who told you you were bad at sex for _four years_?”

“I thought he wanted me to get better. Eventually I figured out that I was never going to be good enough for him.” The way Connor says this, so flatly, staring at the ceiling… Hank’s heart breaks for him a little. No, a lot.

“Fuck him, clearly. You’re great in bed, and even if you weren’t—” Hank realizes that Connor isn’t really listening to him. It’s stupid: if Connor could just step into Hank’s head for a moment and witness the past hour through his eyes, he’d surely understand. Hank thought maybe he needed to talk less during their sex, but maybe it’s the opposite, maybe he needs to talk more. Maybe he should keep telling Connor how good he feels and how hot he is and how he’s blowing Hank’s mind. Now isn’t the time to start, though Hank fleetingly wishes he could summon a superhuman erection and give it to Connor again, just to show him how wrong his ex was.

Hank cups Connor’s cheek and drags him into a kiss. It’s the easiest way to regain his attention. “You don’t wanna talk about it,” he says, against Connor’s mouth.

“No. He was mean to me. I don’t like thinking about him.”

Hank pecks Connor a second time. “Okay, then you can ask me a personal, kind of invasive question, since you told me all that.”

Connor smiles, just for a second. The question he asks isn’t a smiler. “What was your wife like?”

Hank rolls onto his back and shuts his eyes. He gets why Connor wants to know, he does. He wishes he didn’t get it, actually, so that he could scoff and refuse to answer. “She was… She got people. She got along with everybody. Even me.” A year ago he was still talking about her a lot, but it’s been a while. He has to dig up the phrases, the memories. “She was way fuckin’ smarter than me, because I guess I have a type.” He glances at Connor, who gives him a small smile.

“Do you think she would’ve—approved of me?”

“Approved,” Hank repeats, biting back a laugh. “If she were here, you’d be the guy sleeping with her husband, so.”

“I meant theoretically, as a partner for you.”

Theoretically, meaning Hank has to imagine her looking down on him from wherever she is—it’s definitely up—and seeing what he’s been up to for the past… two years. It’s almost two years, now. The anniversary is coming up.

“She would’ve liked you,” Hank says, hoping his voice sounds steady. “She would’ve liked how you are with Cole, for sure. You get him, and not every teacher he’s had did. Also, if she were alive and you were still Cole’s teacher, she woulda teased me about having a crush on you. She always knew when I got a crush.”

He can see Connor smiling out the corner of his eye. That’s good. Connor hasn’t picked up on the fact that Hank is saying all these things to distract from what he means. Hank’s fitting that one into words, he needs another second.

Connor sidles closer to him. His hair is still damp and smells of Hank’s shampoo. He tucks his head into the spot where Hank’s neck meets his shoulder.

Hank says, “Before she died, she told me she wasn’t that upset about it, and I just—I was losing it, so I didn’t get it. She said it wasn’t gonna be that bad because she wasn’t alone.” He laughs a little, remembering what came next, and it’s a wetter sound than he anticipated. “And then she told me she’d kick my ass in heaven if I died alone.”

Connor props himself up to look at Hank’s face, and his eyes go round. “You’re crying.”

Hank reaches up and wipes a couple tears from his eyes. “Huh.” He sees Connor looking at him with a quivering lower lip. “It’s okay, Connor. I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

Connor is young, and not versed in emotional nuance, so Hank isn’t sure how to explain it to him. He sighs and puts his palm against Connor’s cheek; Connor leans into the touch. “I’m as fine right now as I’ve been in a long time, Con.” Connor doesn’t move. Hank opens his arms and waits.

Eventually Connor comes to terms with the fact that there’s no bulleted list of actions he can take to make Hank feel better. He settles back into the spot where Hank’s neck meets his shoulder. “I love you,” he says, his voice small.

Hank doesn’t know why, and he hopes Connor doesn’t take it personally, but he laughs a little. Maybe just because it’s ridiculous that this is his life, now. “I love you too, Connor.”

“I’m tired.”

“ _You’re_ tired? You’re thirty-one, you’re not allowed to be tired after sex.”

“It was a lot of sex!”

“It _was_ a lot of sex,” Hank agrees. The drowsiness he’s held off starts creeping back in, weighing down his limbs. “Can I turn off the lights?”

“Yes.”

Hank reaches for the lamp and with a click, they’re in darkness. He slinks an arm around Connor’s shoulders and Connor lays his arm across Hank’s chest. Hank falls asleep thinking about the merits of Connor being quiet versus Connor being loud, and how he doesn’t think he could choose, even if it meant everything.


	10. family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: everyone gets lice in this chapter. sorry.

Connor wakes up at six o’clock exactly, like he’s done every morning for the past twenty years of his life.

He finds himself curled around one of Hank’s arms, holding it to his chest like a child might with a favorite stuffed animal. Hank remains soundly asleep. His snores are gentle and, while Connor doesn’t like to stay in bed after he’s awake, he lies there listening to the silly puttering noises for a minute before he gets up.

He dresses himself in the dark and packs his things into his overnight bag. He brushes his teeth and considers but decides against putting in his contacts—his eye doesn’t look entirely normal yet. He hopes that, by the time he’s finished, Hank will have stirred, but when he returns to the bedroom the snoring has increased in volume. It’s a pity. Connor hates to wake him.

Connor kneels at the side of the bed and nudges Hank’s shoulder, to no effect. It’s poking his cheek that finally makes him snort awake. Hank is not graceful in waking—he blinks rapidly and makes a disgusting nasally sound.

“Hank,” Connor whispers. “I’m leaving.”

“Hnnngh…” Hank reaches for Connor’s head, mussing his hair.

“I’ll text you later.”

“What… but breakfast?”

“I don’t think Cole should know that I stayed the night.” This detail, if Cole ever mentioned it to a classmate or parent, would destroy the ruse of Hank and Connor simply being friends.

Hank is not awake enough to argue. He grunts, and Connor pecks him on the lips.

“Go back to sleep.”

“On it.”

Hank rolls over and passes out again. Connor tiptoes into the hall.

By the time he’s reached the bottom of the stairs, he thinks he’s successfully snuck out. He has his hand on the doorknob when he hears a little voice.

“Mr. Connor, can we eat breakfast?”

Connor turns and Cole is sitting on the sofa. He wears T-rex pajamas and has his iPad on his lap. “Hi, Cole. Good morning,” Connor manages. He lets go of the doorknob.

“Good morning,” says Cole quickly. Connor teaches his students it’s important to greet someone before you start a conversation, that you should always answer a _hello_ or a _good morning_ in kind. “Is Daddy awake yet?”

“No. No, he’s asleep.”

“Oh. Can I have some cereal?”

Connor inhales. He’s already failed in his prerogative, and he just told Hank to sleep more, so he’s created a responsibility for himself to look after Cole in Hank’s stead. So… so perhaps it’s time to swallow his hesitation and figure out how this is going to work, if he can’t sneak out in the morning.

He sets his bag by the door and offers Cole his hand. “Yes. Come on. Let’s make breakfast.”

 

 

The second time Hank wakes up, he thinks he might be in someone else’s house, because it smells… good. Like eggs and coffee. The last time he woke up to the smell of eggs and coffee—he doesn’t even remember. It’s been ages.

He splashes cold water on his face and puts on sweatpants before he heads downstairs to see what the fuck is going on. He notes Connor’s bag by the door, which explains how there’s eggs and coffee happening when Cole can’t make toast yet. Connor’s plan to sneak out must’ve been foiled somehow. Hank can’t pretend he’s not pleased about it.

The tableau he encounters upon entering the kitchen makes him pause. Cole sits at the table munching and watching cartoons on the iPad. Connor, in his glasses, stands over the stove handling a pan. Sumo reclines on the floor between them and gets up to greet Hank, his tail whacking the kitchen island.

They look like a family. It is… huh.

“Hey, buddy,” Hank says, crouching to greet the dog. His back twinges and he winces getting back up—he’s feeling last night, Jesus. “‘Morning, everybody…”

“‘Morning,” Cole chirps.

Connor gives him a nervous smile. “Good morning.”

Hank sidles over to the stove. There’s a full pot of coffee waiting for him, too. “You didn’t have to do this,” he mutters to Connor.

“Cole was hungry and I wanted to. How do you take your coffee? Sit and I’ll bring it to you while your eggs cook.”

Hank just stands there grinning at Connor.

Connor notices, finally, and looks away. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Hank mutters. He checks to make sure Cole isn’t looking, then pecks Connor’s cheek.

“Why aren’t you sitting?” Connor asks in a whispers, turning a shade of pink that reminds Hank of last night.

“I’m going!” Hank joins Cole at the kitchen table. “Cream and two sugars, for the coffee.”

Connor brings him a mug half a minute later. He sets it in front of Hank carefully, as it’s quite full. Hank notes that it’s a mug he got for Father’s Day a couple years back, and reads DADDY in large, stylized letters. He squints at Connor, who answers with a broad smile, what one might even call a _shit-eating grin_ , then trots back to the stove. Funny.

“How’d you sleep, Cole?” Hank asks.

Cole is more interested in Spongebob than him, big surprise. “Good.”

Hank decides to shut up and enjoy his coffee—it’s good, too. Like weirdly good? Hank has made coffee in that pot with those same grounds every morning for years and somehow Connor’s version of it is better. Or maybe he’s crazy and it just tastes better because someone else made it for him. That can happen.

Connor brings two plates to the table, holding them high enough to keep Sumo at bay. It takes a second, but Hank realizes his eggs look—different from his son’s. Less yellow.

“Are these…”

“Egg whites on multigrain toast,” says Connor matter-of-factly.

Hank takes a deep breath. He’s thinking about spending the rest of his life with a man who ruins eggs.

That thought passes through his head with such ease, he doesn’t register the gravity of it immediately. The rest of his life. And it’s not the first time he’s thought that in relation to Connor, is it? He tells himself he’s not thinking ahead, but Jesus. If that’s not thinking ahead, what is?

Hank grumpily shovels some egg whites into his mouth. They taste… fine. Like normal eggs but slightly worse. Connor has put some kind of herb in there that’s nice enough, and he’s watching for Hank’s reaction, so he decides he’s going to suck it up and eat the damn egg whites.

“How are you feeling?” Connor asks.

“Sore.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” says Connor, too innocent. The word _minx_ pops into Hank’s head and he snorts.

“Are you?”

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” Connor’s pout seems genuine, but Hank can’t help rolling his eyes.

“Listen, it was worth it. Extremely worth it.”

Connor smiles into his eggs.

“You’re not going to have any coffee?” Hank asks. “Or orange juice? There's some in the fridge.”

“I try not to drink juice. It has a lot of sugar.” Connor sips a glass of water instead. “And I don’t drink coffee, either.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. I like tea in the mornings, but I couldn’t find any.”

Yeah, that’s one thing Hank definitely does _not_ have, except for maybe a couple packets of that green tea that comes with Chinese take-out. “Can’t believe I didn’t know that about you.”

Connor shrugs. “This is our first morning together.” Their first morning together, after dancing around each other for months. Of course he doesn’t know that Connor likes tea over coffee, that he makes egg whites, that he avoids juice ‘cause of the sugar.

Hank feels a weird little spark of anger. It’s not fair. They’ve been shafted in so many ways.

But damn if he isn’t too old to stay angry about something like that. Better to make what he can of it, now that they are where they are.

Hank clears his throat. “Tell me what kind of tea you like and I’ll have it for next time.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. I want you to, you know, be comfortable.” Hank reaches out and touches Connor’s wrist. Connor stares at his hand.

“Is Mr. Connor gonna have breakfast here again?” Cole asks, looking up from Spongebob. He’s been paying more attention than Hank realized.

“Yeah, sometimes.” Hank grins. “When we have grown-up sleepovers.”

Connor outright glares.

 _What?_ Hank mouths, trying not to laugh.

“Grown-up sleepovers?” Connor repeats, deadpan.

“Oh.” Hank leans over the table toward his son. “Don’t tell anyone me and Mr. Connor are having grown-up sleepovers, okay, bug?”

Cole seems suspicious. Smart kid. “Why not?”

“Because if the other parents find out, they’ll be mad that they can’t have grown-up sleepovers with Mr. Connor too.”

Connor sets down his fork and stares at the ceiling. Hank laughs, and Cole mirrors him, smiling.

“Okay. I won’t,” says Cole. He turns back to the cartoon.

Connor picks up his fork and resumes eating, his eyes straight ahead and his expression blank.

“Connor,” Hank sighs, unable to stop smiling.

“If it gets out, we can’t blame Cole.”

“I won’t tell!” Cole chirps, not looking up.

“I will accept full responsibility,” Hank says quietly. “For mentioning our grown-up sleepovers.” Connor’s expression remains disapproving, but softens enough thatHank thinks he’s assuaged the situation. “What are we gonna do today? I was thinking dog park.”

“Dog park,” Cole agrees, nodding.

Connor glances between them. “I have to go home after breakfast. I need to prepare for school tomorrow.”

“Right,” says Hank, unable to hide his disappointment. “Understandable.”

“Can we still go to the dog park?” Cole asks.

“Yeah, of course we can, bug. We gotta teach Sumo how to make friends.”

Hank smiles at the kid, then at Connor, who’s chewing his lip.

“I’m free again this coming Saturday,” Connor says. “And in a couple of weeks there’s an event I was hoping we could go to. Together.”

“An event? Like a school thing?”

“No, my roommate—Markus, you met him—” Met him or scarred him for life by aggressively tonguing Connor in his living room? “—he’s an artist and he has a show opening at a gallery downtown.” Connor glances down, suddenly shy. “I doubt Cole would like it, but I was thinking we could go.”

“That sounds kinda… fancy,” says Hank, like Connor is proposing they switch the conversation to a language he doesn’t speak.

“It’s a wine and cheese reception.” Connor continues staring at his plate, pushing his eggs around. “We don’t have to stay for long.”

“I’m just saying, are you sure you want all your hip artist pals meeting your, uh…” Hank digs for a way to describe himself that isn’t self-deprecating, or something that’ll get them in trouble if Cole parrots it. “Special old guy friend? Who’s also a cop?”

“Yes, and,” Connor looks up at him with an apologetic wince. “I haven’t told them you’re a police officer.”

Hank doesn’t know what to say to that. They don’t talk about his job… ever. He’d never considered why before, other than homicide not being particularly romantic.

“Law enforcement officials are not especially popular among my friends, what with the…” Connor glances at Cole, choosing his words carefully. “Problems around the institution.”

Connor is embarrassed to be dating a cop. Hank almost laughs. “I can’t blame your friends for knowing shit.” Connor cringes when Hank swears. Hank is embarrassed to be a cop, most of the time. He’s partners with Gavin fucking Reed, for starters. “I’ll go to the thing, but you’re not going to make me pretend I’m an accountant or anything, right?”

“No. No, I trust you to…” Hank nods. Connor doesn’t need to elaborate. “I just wanted you to be aware.”

“Consider me aware.” Hank takes a long sip of coffee. A night of art and politics. It’s a good thing he loves Connor as much as he does. “And this Saturday’s good for me too. We’ll do something this Saturday.”

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

They don’t get to do anything that Saturday.

Not for lack of Hank wanting to. Okay, well, actually, he doesn’t really want to, but it’s because he’s fucking miserable and can’t leave his house.

(03:15 PM) The next text I’m about to send is a joke. Don’t take it seriously

(03:15 PM) I’m breaking up with you because of what you brought into my house

(03:16 PM) _Hey_

(03:16 PM) _I also have lice_

(03:16 PM) _We all have lice right now, Hank_

(03:17 PM) Cole cried for two hours today because I put all his stuffed animals in trash bags to kill the fucking eggs and he thinks they’re suffocating

(3:17 PM) He thinks all his teddy bears are dead Connor

(3:18 PM) What am I supposed to do

(3:18 PM) _Buy him new teddy bears?_

(3:18 PM) _I miss you_

(3:19 PM) What am I made of money

(3:19 PM) I miss you too

(3:19 PM) This is fucking awful

(3:20 PM) _It’s just a few days_

Just a few miserable, miserable days where he and Cole can’t do anything but sit around and watch movies and use medicated shampoo. He knows Connor is laid up, too, and he kind of wants to tell him to come over so the three of them can be miserable together, but he also doesn’t want Connor to see the state of his house or his hair.

Hank sighs down at his phone.

(3:21 PM) A few days without you is a lot

At least he’s charming, even with lice.

(3:22 PM) _That is very cute, Hank_

“I don’t want to do the shampoo again,” Cole groans. “Do we have to? Didn’t they die already?”

“Sorry, bug, gotta make sure. After this we can watch the _Trolls_ movie again, okay?”

The promise of _Trolls_ draws Cole in, but he seems more interested in an iPad game once they finally get around to watching the movie. Hank cranes his neck to see what the game is, exactly. It appears to involve math.

Hank Anderson’s kid is doing math for fun.

Hank sinks back into the sofa and watches the bright colors swirl along to bouncy pop music. It’s going to be good to have someone in Cole’s life who can keep up with him. Who knows what it’s like to be a smart kid.

He pushes Cole’s damp hair off his forehead. “Hey, bug. Can I ask you a question?”

“Mmm,” says Cole.

“Can you answer and still play your game?”

Cole nods.

“Okay. I was wondering what you think about Mr. Connor and me spending time together.”

Cole continues tapping away at his game. “Mr. Connor makes good food.”

Hank hides a grin behind his hand. “Do you like having him here?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you like seeing him at school still?”

“He’s different at school. We have to do reading and writing there, but when he’s here, he doesn’t check my homework.”

Hank’s smile flickers. “You know, bug, in a few months he’s not going to be your teacher anymore. And he can just hang out with us whenever.”

Cole looks up from his game, puzzled. “He can?”

“Yeah. I think he might stick around for a while.”

“Will he still check my homework?”

“He might. But like how I check your homework.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Hank doesn’t know why he’s nervous. It doesn’t make sense. Cole doesn’t get what’s going on—who knows if he’s even going to remember this? But Connor loves to talk about how kids internalize shit and he’s got Hank all anxious to do this the right way. “How would you feel if he came and lived with us one day?”

“Like… forever?”

“Yeah, like forever.”

“That would be good,” says Cole confidently. “Then he can make breakfast instead of you.”

Hank snorts and ruffles Cole’s damp hair. “All right, you little punk.” Things are going to be fine with Connor and Cole. Hell, they’re going to be great, most likely. Hank should be worried more about his parenting skills than Connor’s.

Lice aside, Hank is… what’s the word? Happy?

Yeah, that’s it. He’s fucking _happy_.

Six months ago Cole was his only reason to keep going, and now—even if by some cruel twist of fate he and Connor don’t last—he knows there’s more life left to live. He’s praying Connor can continue being a part of that. He’s praying they’ll reach a point where he lets himself get his hopes up.

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

Connor has missed four days of teaching in five years. He’s ashamed of the record—it was one day in four years until he got the flu last winter.

Niles arrives to pick up the packet of sub work; he steps a foot into Connor’s apartment and says, “You are going insane.”

All the upolestery is covered in plastic wrap, the rugs have been rolled up and bagged, and Connor wears a showercap and plastic gloves. Markus has fled to a friend’s place. Connor resents the notion that any of this is _insane_. “I don’t like lice.”

“An understandable stance,” says Niles. “I don’t entirely understand why this couldn’t be done over e-mail.”

“Because of the diorama.” Connor indicates the two-by-two-foot, lovingly crafted model of the rain forest sitting on his coffee table.

“Connor… you _know_ I drive a motorcycle.”

“I’ll pay for you to take a cab to the school and back. So you can get your bicycle.”

“You also know it’s not a bicycle.”

Connor fiddles with one of his model trees and mutters, “It has two wheels. It’s a motorized bicycle.”

He hears Niles sighing somewhere behind him. Connor has stoicly ignored any traces of tension between him and his brother over the past couple of months. It’s there, he knows it’s there, but as long as they don’t talk about Hank, the problem never surfaces and they can act like everything is fine. It is, coincidentally, their preferred familial method for dealing with conflict.

“I haven’t heard from you much this month,” says Niles lightly. “We should have dinner.”

Connor makes a noncommital noise.

Niles sighs again, louder. He flops down on the couch, making the plastic covering crinkle.

Connor, sitting cross-legged, doesn’t look up from his diorama.

“Just tell me. I’m going to find out eventually.”

An odd feeling squeezes Connor’s throat. He has to cough before he can speak. “You wouldn’t want to hear about it.” Niles is right, to an extent. The truth will out. But Connor enjoys the newness of his relationship, and he’s finding ways to revel in that just a little longer. He fears telling Niles will—no, he just… fears telling Niles.

“I want you to stop avoiding me.”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“Are you going to make me guess? I don’t want to have to guess, Connor.”

Connor lifts his chin and peers at his brother, brow furrowed. He knows he looks silly, wearing a showercap in the living room and pajama pants in the middle of the day. It won’t make what he’s about to say sound especially dignified. “I… we got back together.”

Niles raises an eyebrow. “You got back together—you and David?”

“No, not David!” Connor recoils at the suggestion. “I haven’t spoken to David in four years. I have him blocked through every form of communication.”

“Forgive me, but you’ve dated _one_ person, I don’t know who else—” It hits Niles. He catches up. “Oh my god. Daddy issues?”

“Don’t call him that!” Connor flings a tiny piece of cardboard at Niles, who dodges it. “His name is _Hank_.”

“God, that’s right. I completely forgot about Hank.”

Connor bites his lip so he won’t pout. This is why he didn’t want to tell Niles.

Niles shakes his head. “But what about Amanda? And the student. Cole Anderson, right?” Niles’s eyes go round. “Is Cole Anderson going to be my nephew? Am I going to have a _nephew_?”

“I don’t know, it hasn’t even been a month,” Connor snaps. The answer is _yes, probably_ , but Niles’s tone of voice makes him not want to say it. “And we worked it out with Amanda. The only one who doesn’t know is Cole, and we’re going to tell him in June.”

Niles sits back, letting this information settle over him. “There are worse students to adopt, I guess. Do you know Hunter the third-grader? He’s a nightmare… Always spitting. He’d make an awful nephew.”

“I’m not adopting him,” says Connor, in a clipped tone. “It’s—I’m not thinking about that yet.” Except that he is thinking about it, a lot, every night before he falls asleep. He had a dream two nights ago where Cole kept getting lice again and again and Hank wasn’t there to help Connor care for him. Connor woke up in a cold sweat. He didn’t go back to sleep for an hour and a half.

He can feel Niles looking at him curiously. It’s annoying.

“Stop psychoanalyzing me.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to. It’s just…” Niles sits forward, forcing Connor to meet his eye. “I thought after David you’d want someone different. Someone your own age. And instead you’ve chosen a man who’s even older and more like Dad—I mean, a single father? Do you not see what you’re doing?”

So much for not psychoanalyzing. “All I am doing is being treated well by someone who cares about me,” Connor says firmly. “Hank is nothing like Dad.” Niles rolls his eyes, and Connor adds, “You don’t know him, Niles.”

“I know he dumped you in public because of something _I_ said.”

“For which he sincerely apologized. You don’t know the half of it.”

“Then I sincerely do not understand,” says Niles, getting to his feet. He turns back to Connor. “Is this a sex thing for you? The older guys?”

“ _No_ , shut up.” This line of questioning irritates Connor in a particular way, which makes him think there might be a sex thing in there somewhere. But his feelings for Hank are real. “Why can’t you trust me about him?”

A hint of a smirk forms on Niles’s face. “Because I trusted you about David, and look where that got you.”

Connor gets up now, too. He’s not angry. He doesn’t permit himself to be angry. “I’d much rather experience intimacy and be hurt than shut myself off from any sort of meaningful interpersonal connection.” Niles’s smirk vanishes. “Because that’s what you’d like me to do, isn’t it? Because Dad hurt me and David hurt me, you expect me to be like you and let absolutely no one in. I understand that it’s working for you and that no one can make you feel pain anymore but—but sometimes you need to be all right with the possibility of pain in order to feel anything else.”

Niles laughs—dry, humorless—and turns away from Connor. “How did this conversation become about me?”

“It was always about you! You keep trying to figure out how Hank and I dating comes back to Dad, because _you_ can’t stop your issues with him from affecting your dating life.” Connor’s heart pounds and he’s out of breath, but _fuck_ , it feels good to say that aloud.

“Maybe I don’t want you to get fucked for a fuck,” Niles snaps. He reaches for his coat.

“It’s not that, it’s not a—” Connor moves to put his hand through his hair but he’s still wearing the showercap. It takes a modicum of fire from his tone. “I don’t doubt your concern for me.”

“It seems like you do!”

“Niles, I am in love with this man.”

Niles freezes with one arm in his coat.

“You are the only family I have.” Connor doesn’t know if it’s the stress of the lice or his annoyance over missing school or the fact that the two of them never, ever talk like this, but his voice cracks when he says, “I want you to give him a chance. A genuine chance. Please.”

Eyes narrowed, Niles slides his other arm into his coat. “What if I say I’ll consider it?”

“I know you’re unreasonably stubborn, so I would take it as a victory.”

“Unreasonably,” Niles echoes, lip curling. “Fine. Take your victory. I will attempt to open my mind, under one condition.”

“What’s that?”

Niles indicates the diorama. “ _You_ carry this monstrosity out to the cab.”

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

 

It’s three whole weeks before the lice episode is finally, completely over. Cole and Connor go back to school after just a few days, but Hank still has to check Cole’s and his hair with a wet comb every other day. The day of the final lice check lines up with the evening of Markus’s art gallery show… thingy.

Hank is lice-free, but that doesn’t make him feel ready to face a group of people he’s spent weeks imagining into legendary arbiters of judgment. He showers, he puts some gel in his hair, he trims his beard—and his nostrils, and his ears, because he’s fucking old now. He knows how to make himself presentable, to an extent, but there’s a problem. Hank stands at the threshold of his closet, phone in hand, glowering.

(05:56 PM) Connor

(05:56 PM) Are you free right now

(6:01 PM) _Just finished dinner. What is it?_

(6:01 PM) How would you feel about coming over early

(6:02 PM) _I could. Are you okay?_

(6:03 PM) Yes

(6:03 PM) Well no

(6:03 PM) Yeah in the mortal peril sense but

(6:04 PM) I need your help

(6:05 PM) _With what?_

(6:06 PM) Uhhh

(6:06 PM) I know Im a fuckin adult and all that but

(6:07 PM) I need you

(6:07 PM) to dress me


	11. smitten

It’s two degrees above freezing when Connor arrives at Hank’s the night of the gallery reception—balmy for Michigan in mid-March. Spring isn’t far off, and then, the summer. But Connor tries not to let the warming weather distract him: tonight Hank will get to know Markus and Niles, and meet the rest of Connor’s friend group, for the first time. This evening contains more than enough possible sources of anxiety to overload Connor’s brain; he can’t add the distant future into consideration.

He arrives at Hank’s around half-past six, in response to a pathetic summons. _I need you to dress me_. Initially, Connor attempted to reassure Hank that his normal fashion choices would be suitable—Connor likes how Hank dresses, actually. It’s a little alien to him, but therein lies the appeal. And he’s noted a significant uptick in Hank’s self-care routines over the last few weeks.

Every time Connor sees Hank, it seems, Hank looks… better. Perhaps that is the wrong word for it—Connor has always liked the way Hank looks, having been sexually attracted to him from their first meeting—but Hank had demonstrated a lack of routine attention to his appearance. As he’d previously referred to himself as _insecure_ and his favorite self-descriptor is _old_ , Connor intuits that Hank might not perceive his body as worthy of upkeep. His new attention to things like _shaving_ and _showering_ and _removing unruly eyebrow hairs_ is for Connor’s benefit, most likely, though Connor hopes their sexual relationship has instilled newfound confidence in Hank, or at least a sense of worthiness, like it had done for Connor.

All this to say, Connor has never taken umbrage with Hank’s fashion choices as much as he has with Hank’s self-deprecating. He explained this to Hank as best he could, but still, Hank insisted.

(6:10 PM) Will it make you feel more confident if I choose something for you to wear?

(6:11 PM) _Yes_

(6:11 PM) _Hell yes_

(6:11 PM) _You actually know how to make me feel like I look good_

(6:12 PM) You do look good, Hank

(6:12 PM) _Please_

(6:12 PM) _PLEASE_

Connor rings Hank’s doorbell. He thinks back to standing in this same spot over three months ago, waiting to deliver his inditement to Hank. It feels like a memory belonging to someone else.

Hank throws open the door and he’s—not entirely naked, but wears only boxer shorts, which is close enough that Connor glances out into the street to make sure there are no scandalized neighbors or passersby.

“Thank fuck,” says Hank, in lieu of hello. “Come on in.”

“Is Cole still here?”

“No, no, I dropped him off at the sleepover already.” Hank starts up the stairs. “When’s this thing start, again? Do we have to be on time?”

Connor stands by the door pouting for a moment before he follows Hank up. “It starts at seven, and I wanted to arrive before eight.” The lack of a proper greeting disappoints him, though Hank’s distraction is an obvious explanation.

Connor enters the master bedroom, which he hasn’t visited since their last night together. Seeing Hank’s duvet makes his neck warm—the sensation of that fabric on his skin has seen him bravely through many lice-quarantined nights alone.

“You’re gonna have so much to make fun of once you get in this closet.” Hank’s voice drifts through the open bathroom door. Connor pokes his head into the bathroom, and then into the attached closet, where Hank is standing amid chaos. He has clearly tried on and rejected half his wardrobe, and heaps of slacks and shirts litter the floor. Every drawer of the dresser sits open, with muddled clothing hanging out. What items remain hung up are wrinkled and slipping from their hangers.

Connor closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He steps out of the closet, back into the bathroom. He stares at himself in the mirror. Tries to think about nice things: new paper, white wine, Hank’s beard tickling his chin.

“Connor…?” Hank appears in the closet doorway, looking sheepish. “Is this upsetting you?” He indicates the disaster behind him.

“Yes. Your closet is appalling. You’re an adult man,” Connor says, wounded.

“Yeah.” Hank puts his hands on his hips. “It’s… not great.”

“And you didn’t kiss me hello.”

Connor watches Hank’s expression snap from embarrassment to outright kicking himself. “Fuck. Okay, yes, sorry.” He takes Connor’s hand and steps forward, cupping his cheek, to give him a light kiss. The beard tickle squeezes Connor’s chest. “I’m having some kinda night, Con.”

“You seem distracted.” Connor touches the hair between Hank’s pectorals. Speaking of distracted.

“That’s a word for it,” Hank sighs, still cupping Connor’s cheek.

“How would you describe what you’re feeling?”

“I’d describe it as, ‘not wanting to humiliate my hot young boyfriend in front of all his hip friends.’”

Connor blinks. And blinks. And squeezes his eyes shut for a long time. “What?”

“Just, you know.” Hank gestures to himself.

“How would you humiliate me?”

“By—being old and not hot and uncool and—” Hank steps back, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to talk about art, kid. I’m gonna stick out. It’s sweet of you to invite me but you could just come over after if you wanted, you know? I’m fine with that.”

“I want you to meet my friends.” Connor is frowning and pouting and resisting the urge to beat his fists on Hank’s bare chest. “I thought you wanted to meet them, too.”

“Of course—I mean, I do want to, I just get the feeling that I’m not what they’re wanting for you, and, uh—” Hank touches Connor’s elbow gently, his face twisting into a wince. “It doesn’t make a guy feel great about himself, I guess. Is what I’m saying. In my shitty way.”

Connor’s stomach is doing that thing where it expands and contracts in a horrible erratic pattern. The feeling of Hank’s fingers stroking his arm keeps his composure in tact, but this is not a conversation he was looking forward to having before going to a event already causing him a deal of stress. “You’re what _I_ want for me.” A smile tugs at Hank’s lips. “Of course I care about their opinions. They’re good people, which also means they know that things like age and clothing are relatively arbitrary and wouldn’t begin to judge you based solely on your appearance. They will like you for the same reasons I like you, which are that you’re smart and kind and funny.” Connor takes a sharp little breath. “Also, stop saying you’re not hot. It offends me. I find you very attractive.”

Connor continues to frown, chin out, holding his ground. He’s ready to argue.

Only Hank is grinning at him all big and wide, then getting closer, then pressing his mouth to Connor’s. He puts his bare arms around Connor and pulls him close. Connor can smell how fresh he is from the shower and taste the mint of toothpaste on his lips. They’re in opposite states of dress—Hank almost naked, Connor still in his winter coat—which intensifies the warmth spreading over Connor as Hank deepens the kiss, licking into his mouth. Hank slows undoes the zipper of Connor’s coat and slips a hand inside, palming Connor’s stomach and chest. It’s been weeks since Connor felt Hank’s hands, and they—they continue to be large and impressively thick. Hank bites on Connor’s lower lip, then pulls away to mutter in Connor’s ear, “How long before we gotta be at this party?”

Connor’s focus—on their argument, on the reception—has evaporated. He struggles to collect his thoughts while also suppressing the beginnings of an erection, a monumental task when Hank won’t stop stroking his stomach and kissing up his neck.

 _Avoidance_. Hmph.

Connor grabs Hank’s wrists and forcibly removes him from—the premises. “Not long enough for that. And you’re deflecting.”

“Me, deflecting?” says Hank coyly. He’s not much of an actor. “Hell, _you’re_ the one saying how much you’re attracted to me—”

“You can’t use sex to get out of going to the party.”

Hank throws his head back and groans.

Thanks to Hank’s ministrations and the blasting radiator, Connor is uncomfortably warm, and he slips off his coat while he talks. “Go sit on the bed and I’ll pick out something for you to wear.” He hangs his coat from a hook on the bathroom wall and waits for Hank to obey, but Hank doesn’t move. He’s staring at Connor, mouth agape. “What?”

“Is… that’s what you’re wearing to the thing?”

Connor looks down at himself. He is in a usual white button down and a pair of trousers, but he’s exchanged the sweater for suspenders, and his wingtips for brown leather ankle boots. A bit trendier than he’s used to, but he knows what his friends will be wearing and he wants to fit in. He looks back up at Hank, whose expression is twisted as if in pain. “You don’t like it?”

“Uh—” Hank turns away. “It’s cute.” He vanishes into the bedroom. Connor isn’t sure what just happened, but at least Hank does what he asked.

Connor returns to Hank’s war zone of a closet and resists the urge to start cleaning up. Instead he sorts through the piles of clothing, collecting bearable pieces. There are remarkably few items that don’t have holes or stains. Connor feels quite sad about it—it’s clearly been years since Hank bought anything new for himself. But perhaps Connor can repair this neglect, in time.

He returns to the bedroom with an armful of options. Hank is sitting on the end of the bed, reclined on his elbows. He straightens up when he sees Connor. Connor senses Hank’s gaze traveling from his face downwards, and then back up again. He does this several times as Connor sets the clothing on the bed beside him and begins putting together an outfit.

“Those pants do not fit you, Con.”

“What do you mean? They’re very comfortable.”

“Yeah, but your ass is, uh...” Hank reaches for it, but gets his arm pushed away by Connor, who is biting back laughs. “I’m just saying, it’s hard _not_ to look at it.”

“Have you considered that I want it to be looked at?”

Hank tugs his beard, eyes going vacant. “So you want everyone in the gallery staring at your ass?”

“No, I want _you_ staring at my ass.” Connor smiles and drops a shirt into Hank’s lap. “I don’t care if other people happen to look.”

Hank wets his lips. They curl into a smirk. “You know, now that nobody’s home, I get to make you scream all I want.”

Connor’s smile twitches. He has trouble ignoring the heat crawling up his neck; he tries to shrug it off. “Put the shirt on, Hank.”

Hank grunts—this is a bizarre sort of standoff they’re in, Connor attempting to get Hank into some clothes, Hank suggesting that they take Connor’s off. “Come on, Connor,” he says, his voice going low and smooth. “You’d rather go make small talk for two hours than get on your knees? I’ll fuck you open. Maybe I’ll even come inside you.”

Hank is good at talking dirty, good enough to give Connor pause. The memory of his last time in this bedroom isn’t helping. Hank slides forward in his seat, making the outline of his dick in his boxers more visible.

It’s a good thing that Connor is right, and knows he’s right. He bats his eyelashes at Hank, who breaks immediately. He puts his head in his hands. “God. Fuck. I thought I had you.”

“I’m stronger than you, Hank. Put the shirt on.”

“Okay, okay, I’m putting the fucking shirt on. Jesus.” He shoves his arms into the sleeves and pulls the henley over his head. “Now I’m gonna be horny the whole time. Even _more_ horny.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you tried to seduce me.”

“Yeah, all right, Mr. I-want-you-to-look-at-my-ass.” Hank glares down at himself. “This is what you want me to wear… long underwear?”

“It’s a henley. They’re stylish.”

“I used to wear this under my shirt when I went ice fishing.”

Connor shoves a pair of jeans in his direction. “Fascinating. Put these on next.”

Hank accepts the jeans, laughing. “You’re feisty tonight.”

“I thought you liked that.”

“I do,” says Hank, getting to his feet. Connor has to turn away to avoid being compromised by Hank’s height towering over him. “And look, I’m not even talking about how bad it makes me wanna fuck you. I’m putting on my pants, just like you asked.”

Connor turns his head enough that Hank can see him roll his eyes. Hank is grinning.

“Your outfit is cute, Con, but I think it’s missing something.”

He catches Connor off-guard with that—Connor, detail-oriented as he is, shudders at the idea of _missing something_. “What’s that?”

Hank tugs up the jeans and zips them. “You’ve got your little overnight bag somewhere, yeah? You should wear your glasses with this look. It works.”

Connor reaches to push his glasses up his nose, forgetting he’s not wearing them. He does remember Hank finds them _hot_ , but it’s a difficult thing for him to parse. “I don’t typically wear them when I’m dressing up.”

“Just saying, if you really want to drive me crazy.” Hank gestures to the remaining clothes on the bed. “Is this it, or do you have something else for me?”

“No, yes, I—” Connor plucks a dark grey blazer from the bed and shoves it toward Hank. “This. Let me go grab you some shoes.”

The final outfit comes together well, in Connor’s opinion. The henley is an oatmeal color, and Connor undoes the top two buttons so a little chest hair remains visible. It’s more form-fitting than Hank is used to for an over-shirt, but he seems comfortable as long as he’s in the blazer, too. The jeans are dark wash, and Connor selects one of his less beat-up pairs of dress shoes as footwear.

Hank stands staring at himself in the mirror by the front door while Connor changes out of his contacts in the downstairs bathroom.

“Hey, Con,” he calls. “What percentage of sure are you that I don’t look like a fucking tool?”

“One hundred percent,” says Connor, emerging into the living room, now bespectacled.

Hank takes a long, thirsty look at him. Connor beats down a wave of self-consciousness. “Damn.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Nope.” Hank grabs his keys. “That was a ‘damn, you look good, kid.’ Let’s go show you off.”

 

 

###

 

 

They take Hank’s car. He gets to be designated driver by default nowadays, but Connor mentioned an open bar and Hank’s never seen Connor drink, so he would’ve offered anyway. Connor states that he plans on having two glasses of wine at most, “Definitely no more than five, or I won’t be able to consent.”

“Consent?” Hank asks, merging onto the highway. He feels Connor squinting at him across the dark car. “Oh, you mean sex. Consent to sex. Yeah, got it. Don’t worry, I’ll stop you before you get sloppy.”

“Thank you.”

Markus’s show is in an old warehouse, rehabilitated into upscale shops and apartments. They walk into the cavernous gallery space, and it’s exactly like Hank feared it would be, walking the line between hipster and bougie. Hank’s not comfortable on either side of that equation.

He does feel like he sticks out, but within a minute of entering he sees a guy half his age also in a henley, and he thinks, _thank god for Connor._ If they have to do shit like this—and maybe they do, maybe that’s part of getting to be with Connor—at least Connor has his back.

“We should find Markus,” says Connor.

“Uh-huh.” Hank follows him, winding through clumps of well-dressed people sipping wine and chatting. Hank can tell there are paintings, but not much more than that. They move too quickly for him to get a proper look.

Connor’s hand folds around his wrist and jerks him in the direction of a group of people. Hank recognizes Markus—their first meeting was brief but memorable.

“Hello,” says Connor, loudly. “Hi, everyone.” He lets go of Hank to exchange a hug with Markus. “Congratulations.”

Hank stands outside of their little friend circle. He stares at the friends. The friends stare at him. It’s not… _not_ awkward.

As soon as Connor and Markus are done with their hug, Hank jumps in to shake Markus’s hand. “Nice to meet you again. Properly.”

That gets an amused smile out of Markus, at least. “You too. Thanks for coming.”

“This is Hank Anderson,” Connor announces. His voice is flat and weird, but Hank assumes these people know Connor well enough to understand that he’s nervous. “Hank, this is North, and Simon, and Josh.”

“Nice to meet you, North and Simon and Josh.”

Everyone is smiling except Connor, who turns to Hank and says urgently, “I want wine.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m going to go get some.”

“I can get it if you want.”

“No, I wouldn’t ask you to. I’ll go.”

Hank steps aside to let Connor by. He tells the friends, “I quit drinking a while back.”

“Good for you,” says Simon.

“I can’t believe we’re finally meeting you,” says Josh. “Connor is extremely close-lipped about you.”

Hank tries not to laugh at the image of Connor refusing to answer his friends’ questions about his new relationship. Poor kid. “We got off to a rough start, I don’t blame him.”

“I have to know what that means,” says North, with a chuckle.

“I think I’ll let him tell that story, sometime?”

Josh looks intensely disappointed. “At least tell us something about you. We don’t even know what you do for a living.”

Hank glances over his shoulder. He can sort of make out the bar through the crowd, but not Connor specifically. Hard to say if he’s on his way back, and Hank doesn’t know how to stall that question. “I, uh.” He turns back to Connor’s friends. “I’m a homicide detective.”

The four of them stare at him for a beat.

Simon starts to laugh. “What, like on _CSI_?”

“I mean, yes and no. It takes me weeks to get fingerprints processed, and DNA, that’s a fucking ordeal—”

“You’re a police officer,” says Markus, as though this information were just settling in his brain.

There’s a hint of apology in Hank’s voice when he says, “Ah, yeah.”

“One of the pieces I’m exhibiting tonight is a retrospective on the 1967 riot that I did for its fiftieth anniversary last year. I’d love to show it to you and hear your thoughts, and potentially pick your brain regarding a work-in-progress.”

Hank is picking up nothing from Markus but an earnest desire for conversation. He’s surprised, based on what Connor told him. “Uh. I guess?”

North puts a hand on his arm. “If you agree to talk to him, that’s the rest of your night.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bad time,” Hank laughs. If there’s one thing he can talk comfortably about, it’s police work. 

Josh says, “If at any point you get sick of him, send up a flare and we’ll come rescue you.”

Markus is gesturing for Hank to follow him toward some painting. Hank checks for Connor again—he can see him working his way back to the group, wine in hand. He starts to follow Markus away. “You all tell Connor I’ll be right back.”

“We’ll take very good care of him,” says North, waving them off. “Go and bond.”

 

 

###

 

 

As soon as Connor learns that Markus has lured Hank into a political discussion, he accepts that he won’t get to speak to his significant other for at least an hour. In a way, it’s a relief: as long as Markus and Hank have occupied one another’s attention, Connor doesn’t have to account for unknown variables.

He watches at a distance while his roommate and his boyfriend have a conversation that seems, for the most part, incredibly good natured. And then there is the image of it: Hank, standing in front of a beautiful painting, wearing an outfit that Connor picked for him, talking to one of Connor’s oldest friends about race and law. Connor fingers the rim of his wine glass. He’s glad he made Hank come with him, even if Connor turns bright red when when Hank smiles at him across the room.

Connor lets himself relax, just a little. Moves on to his second glass of wine. Answers more questions about Hank from North and Simon and Josh, though primarily North and Josh. Their inquiries are either mundane or suggestive—how long have they been official, and is the _you know_ as good as it seemed that one night—which Connor answers and refuses to answer, respectively. He tiptoes around Hank having a son, and that son being one of Connor’s students. He claims they connected on a dating app. It’s related to the truth.

He leaves the group briefly to hunt down the catering table, where there are tiny vegetable wraps available.

“Mr. Connor?”

He doesn’t recognize the voice, and when he turns, his mouth is full of tiny vegetable wrap. He blinks at the woman addressing him—her face is familiar, he does know her, he’s sure of it.

She puts a hand to her chest. “I’m Emma’s mother? Emma Philips—”

“Yes! Yes. Sorry.” The second glass of wine. He should’ve gotten that right away. “Your first name is Caroline?”

“Yes, that’s right. Are you a fan of Markus Manfred?”

“He’s an old friend of mine, actually—”

An arm loops around Connor’s shoulders. He would know its width and weight anywhere. He turns and Hank is suddenly very close, speaking into his ear. “Hey, sorry for ditching you, babe. Markus went to talk to a dealer or something so I think I’m free for a while.”

Caroline Philips pokes her head forward, eyeing Hank. “You look extremely familiar. Have we met?”

Hank squints at her. “Uh, maybe…”

“My daughter Emma is in Connor’s class.” Hank’s face falls just as Caroline’s lights up, figuring it out. “Oh, you’re Cole Anderson’s father!”

“Yeah, yeah—Hank.”

Silence falls in their conversation of three. Hank removes his arm from Connor’s shoulders slowly, trying to make it look casual. But it doesn’t, and neither does the small step he takes to put a platonic distance between him and Connor. Caroline Philips looks between the two of them again and again, her eyes slightly wide, her mouth fixed in a polite smile.

Connor thought, maybe, that his stomach was done complaining for the night. But it kicks harder than ever now, angry at the wine, angry at how—stupidly unlucky this is.

“Cole is a wonderful boy,” says Caroline, with aggressive enthusiasm.

“He, uh—” Hank glances at Connor. Connor can’t look anywhere but at his feet. “He speaks very highly of Emma.”

“My husband and I are very proud of her.” Caroline clears her throat. “Even if she isn’t the teacher’s favorite.”

Hank says, “Uh. Huh.” Which isn’t a statement as much as a series of sounds. But Connor can’t blame him; it’s not as though he did any better.

“You both have a wonderful evening,” says Caroline, in a tone of voice that suggests she’d rather they get hit by a bus. She grabs a tiny vegetable wrap with her bare hand and disappears into the crowd.

Hank is holding him as soon as she’s out of sight. “Hey. Hey. Don’t freak out.”

“Too late.” Connor buries his face in Hank’s shoulder. “I need another glass of wine.”

“Maybe we should just go?”

“No, we can’t, we haven’t talked to Niles yet!”

“You really wanna talk to Niles after that?” Connor slaps Hank’s arm. “Yeah! Yeah, okay, you do. Go get another glass of wine and I’ll find your brother, okay?”

Connor nods, but he doesn’t move from Hank’s embrace. He can feel Hank’s heartbeat, steadier than his own, and he regulates his breathing to its rhythm. Surely there is a logical response to this situation, something they can do. He helps nothing and no one by panicking.

Hank gives Connor’s hand a squeeze. He mutters, “You good?”

Connor exhales. “Yes.” He straightens up and steps away from Hank. “Wine, Niles. I’m going.”

 

 

###

 

 

Hank watches Connor walk away. His ass only further devastates Hank.

It’s hard to imagine the night could get worse than Caroline Philips, but having to approach and greet Connor’s brother by himself might as well be a torture designed by the devil personally, just for Hank Anderson.

He spots Niles examining one of the paintings, but waits a minute before going up to him. The last time they talked was… bad. Hank has to resolve never to let Niles get to him again before he takes the plunge into another one-on-one encounter. Niles doesn’t like him, and might never like him, and they’re going to have to fucking deal with each other anyway. That’s life, that’s family.

He rolls his neck. Enough stalling.

“Niles.”

Niles scans him. He glares. “You’re here.”

“Yeah. How’s your night going?”

Niles continues to glare at him, saying nothing.

Hank sighs and glances around, hoping to see Connor on his way back from the bar, but no dice. “Connor wanted to say hello.”

“Where is Connor, then?”

“Getting another glass of wine before we go.”

“Ah,” says Niles, turning to the painting. He has his own drink, what looks like scotch. Hank feels a pang of jealousy. “Driving him to drink?”

“I think it might have been running into another parent from his class, actually. She recognized me.”

Niles frowns. “Does she know?”

“Seems like she might, yeah.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“It’s not great. I think your brother’s letting it get to him.”

Niles takes a long sip of his drink. He says, still gazing at the painting, “Whatever happens is your fault. You have the power in this situation. You could stop it all if you leave him alone before he gets hurt.”

 _He is never going to like you_. Telling himself that makes it easier to understand why Niles says the shit he does. This isn’t about Hank, and it’s barely about Connor. “You care about your brother a lot, don’t you, Niles?” Niles purses his lips. “Can I tell you a secret?” He gets Niles’s attention with that. Hank leans in confidentially. “I care about him too. Actually, I think I’m gonna marry the kid. And then you’ll have to deal with me forever, so you might want to start working on getting that stick out of your ass.”

Niles finally faces Hank. His scotch sloshes in his glass. “If you hurt him I will tear out your esophagus with my bare hands.”

“Oh, a threat, huh?” Hank snorts.

“Are you going to shoot me, cop?”

Connor’s voice shoulders between them: “Stop.” His fresh glass of wine is already half gone, and his cheeks are red. “Bad! Both of you. _Bad._ No fighting.”

Hank recognizes the voice Connor uses for disciplining students and struggles not to burst out laughing. Niles continues looking pissed.

Connor says to his brother, “We’re leaving, but I wanted to say hello first.”

“Hello,” says Niles, in a monotone.

“Hello,” Hank echoes. He gives Niles’s arm a friendly punch. If looks could kill.

Connor drains the rest of his wine in three huge gulps, with both of them staring. He finishes it, and there’s a suspenseful moment. Then he hiccups.

Tipsy Connor tugs at Hank’s lapel. “I want to go home.”

“To your apartment?” Hank asks, smiling.

“No! To _your_ home. I want to—” Connor seems to remember his brother is standing beside him. “Sorry, Niles.”

“It’s fine, I’m just going to go vomit.” Niles waves to them as he walks off. “Please get home safe and never tell me about it.”

“How are we doing?” Hank asks, a hand on the small of Connor’s back.

“Good. Great.” Connor grabs his lapel again. “What about you? Did you have a good time? Except for Caroline. And Niles. And Markus. Did you have an acceptable time?”

“Actually, I enjoyed talking to Markus. He’s a good guy. We had a nice conversation. His ideas are…” Hank realizes that Connor isn’t listening to him. He’s more interested in sliding his hands thoughtful up and down Hank’s chest. Hank considers squeezing his ass—he’s been deprived of the honor for hours, now—but they’re still in public. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, lowering his voice. “We can talk about everything tomorrow. Or when you’re sober.”

Connor steps back at the insinuation he might not be sober. “I am perfectly fine, Lieutenant.”

“Did you just call me Lieutenant?” Hank can’t help the cackle that escapes him.

“I’m only buzzed, I could talk about anything I wanted right now, all my facilities—excuse me, my faculties—are perfectly in check.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes! _Yeah_. _”_

“You know there’s a middle ground between ‘too tipsy to talk about heavy shit’ and ‘too tipsy to make decisions,’ right?”

Connor blinks. He licks his lips. He steps toward Hank again, and speaks in a mutter. “I can still consent to sex?”

Hank puts a hand on Connor’s head and musses his hair. “Yeah, you’re fine.”

“Then I agree that we should wait to talk about things. Until tomorrow. Or maybe never.” Connor gives an affected shrug, as if to say, _See if I care. I don’t care. Look how little I care_.

Hank is smitten.

Connor thrusts his hands into Hank’s. “Take me to my chariot. I’m told it awaits.”

Hank puts an arm around Connor’s waist and leads him toward the door. “You are a fucking weirdo.”

Connor grins—a big, wide, glowing expression that squeezes Hank’s chest. “You like that about me. You think it’s cute.”

Hank thinks back to a phrase that slipped out of him earlier, a thing he figured he’d say to rile Niles. _Actually, I think I’m gonna marry the kid_. With the way Connor is smiling right now, at him, at Hank Anderson, he thinks that might not be far from the truth.

It’s a privilege. Not one he’s earned. Not one he deserves.

“You might be onto something, there,” he says, and they start their journey home.


	12. as long as i can

 

 

Hank inhales and the cool night air brushes against his lungs, invigorating and irritating. He coughs, an ugly cough that’s leftover from fifteen years of half-a-pack-a-day. He quit smoking the same day he got engaged—started a new period in his life, flipped a heavy page—but there’s damage there he can’t undo.

Sumo putters around the backyard, blessing every other bush with a sprinkle of pee, refusing to make it quick, like he knows his dad has someone waiting. “C’mon, bud,” Hank sighs, glancing back at the house. He can see the light on in the upstairs hallway.

Connor might already know Hank used to smoke. He’s perceptive about shit like that, so observant, sometimes more observant than Hank, whose job is being observant. Still, Hank is going to feel guilty if he doesn’t say it at some point. He’s going to feel guilty if he doesn’t submit a full list of past transgressions to Connor before… before whatever. He doesn’t know what he’s building to. Earlier tonight Hank said the word _marry_ and the sound still coats his throat.

He keeps trying to remember how he felt the last time that word popped into his vocabulary, but everything’s different now. With Cole, and the—he keeps calling it “the gay thing” but that doesn’t seem right. Hank doesn’t even know if it’s legal right now, in Michigan. And he’s only been dating Connor, what, a couple of months? He’d tell any friend of his that’s too fast, that they needed to slow their roll. He’s a fucking idiot for thinking about this already. But when they’re together, it seems—obvious. Easy.

Hank needs to remember what they look like on paper. Maybe he should tell Connor about the smoking tonight. Maybe he should start listing off all the scars and medical conditions and unwinnable traumas like a rap sheet: smoked for fifteen years, cheated in calculus, spent his thirties getting out from massive credit card debt, has voted for more than one third party presidential candidate, was once caught drunkenly urinating in a public park and got off with a warning because he happened to have his badge on him. Got a blowjob from a cute freshman boy in his senior spring and ignored the kid until graduation—his first same-sex experience, a real gem, a shining example.

It’s a pity you don’t have to undergo a job interview before a person gets to fall in love with you. He could’ve saved Connor a lot of time and energy, probably. And instead—Hank doesn’t know if he could talk Connor out of feeling the way he feels. Hank doesn’t know if he’s selfless enough to try.

Sumo bounds up to him, finally, and they go back inside. Hank feeds the dog and leads him into his crate, where he collapses and begins to snore.

Hank stands at the foot of the stairs for a few seconds before he climbs them, trying to—trying to shrug off the thoughts that followed him home from the art gallery. Thoughts about the future and his failings and how good Connor is. Too good for Hank. Hank has to swallow this awful feeling that he’s taking advantage of Connor, somehow, of his youth and naivety and vulnerability. Because Connor’s not a kid, no, and Hank’s being a condescending prick, assuming that Connor doesn’t know the mess he’s getting himself into with Hank. Connor has seen his closet. He has to have an idea.

Connor is waiting in his room, or he might still be in the bathroom—he’d said he needed to _get ready_ , and Hank didn’t question him. He doesn’t remember Connor needing to _get ready_ the last time they did this, but he needed to take the dog out anyway, so he didn’t fuss.

He climbs the stairs, his footfalls heavy. Fuck, he was horny through that whole party, and now that he’s actually going upstairs to join Connor in the bedroom, he can’t stop thinking about the unsexiest shit. Connor’s bubbly tipsy chatter during the car ride home was charming, it was beautiful, and Hank felt and feels totally fucked for Connor. But that’s the problem.

 _You have the power in this situation_.

Fucking Niles. Hank told himself he wasn’t going to let that grimy goth fucker get to him, and yet he’s got the warning ringing in his ears.

 _You could stop it all if you leave him alone before he gets hurt_.

From a rational perspective, Hank can see Niles framing Hank’s interest in Connor as selfish and imbalanced, as opposed to a reciprocated adult affection. Niles is being manipulative—he couldn’t talk Connor out of it, so he tried to work his magic on Hank.

Not a bad idea, honestly. It’s kind of working.

The door to Hank’s room sits open, and he pokes his head inside. He can hear Connor moving around in the bathroom. It seems wrong to be relieved Connor isn’t already laid out across the bed, begging for dick, but he’d only be disappointed by Hank right now. Hank sighs, shrugs out of the blazer, and sits on the end of the bed.

“You good in there?” he calls, after another minute of shuffling from the bathroom.

Connor is quiet for a beat. “I may I have done something silly.”

Hank smiles to himself. “What’s that?”

The bathroom door cracks open and Connor peeks out. His nose wrinkles. “You have to promise not to laugh.” Hank is already laughing, unfortunately. “I’m not going to show you,” Connor announces, and shuts the door.

“No,” says Hank, his belly still shaking. “Please. C’mon. I wanna see the silly thing you did. I love silly. Please, babe.”

“No, it’s too late. I’m taking it off.”

Hank’s ears perk up. He’s done laughing. “Sorry, you put something on? I definitely need to see that.”

“It’s silly…”

“Then I’ll help you get out of it.”

The door opens again, and again, Connor peeks out, this time pouting fiercely. “When we had lice I got bored and lonely and I made a purchase on the internet. And if you don’t like it, please just say, because—”

“Connor.” Hank raises a hand. He beckons with two fingers.

Connor steps out of the bathroom with a whimper that’s more arousing than it ought to be. At first glance Hank can’t tell what’s different. Connor wears his glasses and his white button-down from earlier. He’s removed his pants and the tails of the shirt come to his thighs. No surprises there.

But his legs aren’t bare. They have a dark sheen to them.

“You’re wearing stockings,” says Hank, flatly. Stupidly. God, fuck, his voice sounds so stupid in his head.

Connor nods. He’s fiddling with the top button on his shirt. He undoes it, and it hits Hank that there’s… more. More than stockings. There’s something underneath, too.

Connor starts a slow walk toward the bed, one stockinged foot at a time, undoing more buttons as he goes. His eyes remain wide, nervous, but his mouth is a determined line. As his shirt falls progressively open, Hank can see the flat white planes of his torso, can see the mole at the inner corner of his left pectoral, can see the edges of lace around his chest and waist.

Hank is having trouble swallowing—problematic when he’s just started salivating like crazy. Five minutes ago he was worried about being able to get it up, and here comes Connor, about to present him with the hottest fucking _gift_ he’s ever received.

Connor stops about a foot from the bed, just short of stepping between Hank’s knees. He undoes the final button of his shirt and lets it slide off his shoulders. The button-down crumples around his feet. He doesn’t cringe about the wrinkles like he normally would.

Connor wears a beautiful navy bra with a light blue lace layered over it. The cups of the garment gape against his skinny chest. It’s cute, a little humorous; the real showstopper is below. Narrow satin straps link Connor’s stockings to a coordinated pair of dark blue panties, hitting just above his hips, with a central cutout beneath the belly button through which dark, curly hair is visible. There’s a sheer skirt of the light blue lace falling all the way to the stocking straps, which does absolutely nothing to conceal the bulge of Connor’s cock in underwear not built for a person with a cock.

The closures of the lingerie dimples his chest and waist. A mole on his hip is visible through one of the cutouts in the panties. His pale skin pops against the dark blue—blue is a good color on him. Flattering.

Connor looks away, chin down. He doesn’t stand like a person who knows he looks incredible, but fuck, he should. Maybe Hank’s biased, sure, whatever—because this gorgeous person did this gorgeous thing for him, for them, because he gets turned on seeing Connor in a t-shirt or a tie or just in general so of-fucking-course he’d be into this situation—but there’s a part of him that objectively understands there are perverts (and probably normal people, and probably anybody with a goddamn libido) around the world who’d murder to sit where Hank is sitting right now.

But Connor didn’t do this for anybody. He did it for Hank, and for himself, to feel a certain way with Hank.

Hank wants to touch him so fucking _bad_ , but he can’t move. It feels wrong. He doesn’t deserve the privilege. He feels sick, all of a sudden.

It must show in his face, because Connor asks, “Are you okay? Do you not like it?”

“No, not that.” Hank is sure to say that quickly and emphatically. He’s not going to let Connor get the wrong idea. “You’re fucking beautiful.” Hank folds forward, head in his hands. His stomach churns. “You’re beautiful and I have no fucking clue what you’re doing here, with—fuck.”

He’s cried in front of Connor before, but this is different. It’s not peaceful, quiet, happy crying. His body wants to sob or vomit and he’d rather the sobbing, but still, bad. He swallows and swallows and swallows, trying to shove down the pressure in his throat. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry (he’s already crying). Hank takes a shuddering inhale and feels Connor’s hands on his shoulders.

Connor gets to his knees, pushing up Hank’s chin, refusing to let him hide behind his hands. Connor’s face is stoic, fixed in a tiny frown. If he notices any tears, he doesn’t react to them. “I came here to have sex with my boyfriend.”

Hank wipes his eyes. “How you fuckin’ feeling about that now?”

“I’d still like to if he feels up to it, emotionally. After he tells me what’s wrong.”

Hank snorts, humorless and wet. Connor has a hand on his arm and traces circles against his bicep. “Suppose he realized he doesn’t deserve you.” Connor glances up. “Suppose he realized, he doesn’t deserve you, because you’re perfect. The only imperfect thing about you is that you can’t see how little this old fuck-up deserves you. Maybe he can see he’s keeping you from the kind of person—the kind of future—you deserve.”

Connor hums in consideration. He lowers his gaze to meet Hank’s. He doesn’t smile. “I would say I’ve found that person already. And that… he only has one small imperfection, which is that he can’t see how perfect he is. And how much I’m looking forward to our future together.” Connor leans in to whisper, “Though, that’s two small things. But don’t tell him I miscounted.”

Hank bites his lip. He takes Connor’s hands in his own. He has to think carefully about what to say, because Connor sounds sincere about all that, and not even slightly naive. It’s hard to believe. “I know you’re looking forward to it. I know.”

“But you don’t think I should be.”

“You know, I smoked for a long time.” Hank clears his throat. “Lord knows when I’m gonna croak. I don’t eat right and I don’t exercise, so—”

“We’ll fix that,” says Connor, like he’s already put his plan in motion. Hank laughs softly.

“I’m just saying. When you’re my age, I’ll be in my eighties. Do the math, Connor.”

Connor’s pretty brown eyes shoot him a glare. “Don’t use math against me.”

Hank laughs again, louder. “That’s wrong, isn’t it.”

“Yes. We’re twenty years apart, not thirty.”

Hank’s eyes are drying up. He sighs. “I don’t want you to be alone, Con.”

Connor squeezes his hands. “Then be with me.”

“Okay, yeah, but there’s gotta be someone—”

“No!” Connor—he _snaps_. “There is no one else, Hank.” Hank hasn’t heard that edge in his voice since Christmas Eve. “I don’t want this hypothetical better person you seem convinced exists, waiting to woo me. Before you I hadn’t been with anyone in years. If you want me to love someone better, you’ll just have to be the best version of yourself.” Connor grabs Hank’s chin, or rather his beard, and jerks his head up, forcing Hank to look him right in his narrowed eyes. “For example, someone who doesn’t force me to have these conversations while wearing lingerie.”

Caught in Connor’s vice grip on his facial hair, Hank has to confront the stubborn knit of Connor’s brows and the unrelenting pout on his lips. “You _are_ stronger than me,” Hank mutters. Connor’s mouth flinches. He can caution Connor all he wants, it seems, without it sinking in. Hank has trouble wrapping his head around the revelation that this is Connor’s first relationship since… his last, disastrous relationship. He stumbles over the knowledge and can’t regain his balance. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s out of arguments.

Connor is smarter than Hank, and maybe he’s right. Hell, he’s probably right, knowing his track record in their arguments. But it’s not the easiest truth to accept. Hank tests out a thread of self-talk beginning with, _I am good enough for Connor_. And he laughs to himself. That’s not going to work, not yet, not for a while. He’ll have to settle for something else, for the time being. _I will try to be good enough for Connor_.

Cigarettes can’t be unsmoked, whiskey can’t be undrunk. But there are things Hank can work on, too. Shit like not bursting into tears when he sees his ridiculously attractive boyfriend in lacy underwear.

“You win,” Hank murmurs. He untangles their hands and reaches for Connor’s body, for the curves of his ribcage. The glare melts from Connor’s face. Hank touches Connor with just his fingertips, at first, with the pad of his thumb and his index finger. He traces a line from Connor’s ribs to his belly button, touching his skin lightly enough to rustle only the thinnest top layer of hair.

Connor inhales sharply and his chest bellows. “Good.”

Hank’s hand sneaks around Connor’s hip and, with a tiny tug, pulls him closer. Connor doesn’t take much encouragement; all his determined fervor has dissolved back into trembling vulnerability. Hank glances up at him and smiles.

“This looks fucking amazing,” he says, softly, but close enough to Connor’s stomach that he knows Connor can feel warm, sticky breath on his skin.

“Thank you.” Hank watches the apple of Connor’s throat bob when he swallows hard.

Hank leans closer to Connor’s stomach. He speaks from an inch away. “Makes me wanna touch you real bad.”

“So touch me. Please.”

“Hmmm,” says Hank, in the back of his throat. He can feel the vibration go through Connor like a shockwave. He closes the gap between his mouth and Connor’s stomach, pressing his lips to a spot beside the belly button. When he exhales through his nose, the air billows out and down, stirring the thick hair trailing down the center of Connor’s pelvis. Connor shakes, sighs. He puts his hands on Hank’s shoulders and pulls him closer.

Hank lets his own hands fall to Connor’s legs, his mouth still working against the softness of Connor’s stomach, tracing circles with his tongue. He lays his palms against the undersides of Connor’s thighs and runs them up and down and up and down, worrying the fabric of his stockings. On his way up, he’ll let his fingers brush the hem of the underwear, but only for a second, and no more than a touch. Judging by the way Connor clutches at his shirt, the teasing is effective.

Grinning, Hank tests his teeth against Connor’s belly. He gets a whimper, a nice little sound of surprise and pleasure. In the same spirit, he sneaks a finger beneath the strap connecting Connor’s panties to his stockings on the back of his thigh; Hank pulls up the strap and lets it snap back against Connor’s skin; Connor flinches and _gasps_.

He’s not quiet about it. Hank is about to scold him, until he remembers: they don’t have to be quiet.

Connor looks down at him, his cheeks pink, his eyes wide.

Hank nestles his chin against Connor’s belly. “You like that?”

“Ah… I think I did.”

“I think you did, too.”

Hank snaps the strap again, and it gets the same gorgeous reaction out of Connor. This time Hank gets to watch his mouth pop into an astonished circle.

Hank can’t stop grinning. “You know you’re keeping this shit on, right?”

“But…” Connor looks down at the panties, frowning. “How will you…”

“Willpower, babe.” He grabs Connor’s hips and tugs them down, toward his own, firmly, firmer than he’s done so far tonight. “How d’you feel about getting in my lap?”

Connor falls into his lap, rather than answering the question. He’s not especially coordinated about it, being overeager, but they finally settle into a comfortable position with Connor kneeling on the bed, straddling Hank’s hips.

Hank hooks a hand around the back of Connor’s neck and drags him into a kiss. Connor loops his arms around Hank’s neck. Hank lifts his chin to give Connor a better angle, because he’s letting Connor set the pace for this one, and Connor wants it slow. He wants to brush his tongue against the top of Hank’s mouth, to make the hair on Hank’s arms stand up. He moves his mouth against Hank’s in a smooth but eager rhythm, open and closed, soft and hard, in and out. It’s careful, maybe even choreographed, at the very least calculated. You wouldn’t think that would work, you’d think the kiss would lose its spontaneity, its heat. But Connor has been plotting his next opportunity to tongue Hank for weeks, and fuck if that doesn’t do it for Hank in a big way. His dick was already showing signs of life, but when Connor drags Hank’s bottom lip through his teeth, it twitches, fully awake.

He touches Connor while Connor kisses him, exploring this new way Connor has presented himself. He pinches the stockings on Connor’s thighs, slips his fingers into their hems and under all the little straps. His hands just barely fit between the sheer lace skirt and the satin undergarment of the panties, but they do fit, so Hank can cup Connor’s ass while also pulling the lace tighter against Connor’s half-hard dick. Connor stalls in the kiss when Hank gives his ass a squeeze, a purr escaping him. Hank takes the opportunity to start kissing at his neck, the fine sweep of the nape, the barely-there roughness of stubble on his jaw. Connor’s answer is to grind down into Hank’s lap, against his growing erection. Hank groans, and lets Connor feel teeth on the skin beneath his ear.

Speaking of perfection, Connor rutting against his crotch, winding spindly white fingers through Hank’s hair and clinging to Hank’s neck with a fierceness that’s either desperation or devotion or maybe both—that’s got to be close to a perfect moment. All Hank needs is for Connor to make a sound, any kind of sound, to show he’s liking it too.

Then Connor’s hips flinch down, his satin-covered erection rutting against the tented crotch of Hank’s jeans, and he moans. Like how he moaned into the pillow while Hank fucked him a few weeks ago, except with nothing to muffle it. His whole body shudders with the sound, and it rings in Hank’s ears as long as Connor’s mouth stays open, and Connor never closes his mouth.

Hank drags his hands out from beneath the lace skirt and up Connor’s back. “Well, shit, Con. How’m I supposed to _not_ fuck you, now?”

Connor slips the spindly fingers out of Hank’s hair lets them trail down Hank’s chest. “You not fucking me was never part of the equation.” His fingers reach Hank’s fly and hover there for a second, just above his erection. Hank raises an eyebrow at Connor. The glasses shouldn’t work with the lingerie get-up, only they really fucking do—hard to say if that’s Hank being in love or objective fact, but it feels like objective fact. Connor runs his fingers down Hank’s fly, finally, and the sliver of pressure makes Hank’s head fall back. “You’re extremely aroused, Hank.”

“Huh, yeah, have you fuckin’ seen you?”

“I know what I look like, yes.” Connor tilts his head to the side, gazing down at Hank. “I don’t understand why you haven’t taken me yet.”

“Taken you,” Hank echoes, suddenly out of breath.

“Yes. If you want me, you should take me.”

Hank doesn’t know what to say; his mouth is dry. To his deep, deep, horrified chagrin, Connor slides off his lap. He moves quickly, and Hank finds himself too dumbfounded by arousal to complain. Connor floats toward his bag, on an armchair in the corner; he pulls something small from it, and returns to Hank with his hands behind his back. He extends the item to Hank.

It’s a tie. A necktie. One of Connor’s neckties. It unfurls in Hank’s hand and he stares at it.

He looks up at Connor to complain, because they were making out and Connor got up and decided he needed to, what, show Hank his latest purchase? But when he does lift his head, Connor stands with his arms outstretched and his wrists together. Waiting.

“Connor,” says Hank. It comes out in a wheeze.

Connor says again, “Take me.” His voice is confident. It doesn’t betray the hints of stage fright in his expression, the quivering mouth and rapid blinking. “I want you to do it.”

“You want me… to tie you up?”

“Just my wrists. I thought of it last time.” Connor’s tongue darts along his lower lip. “When you… to keep me from touching myself.”

He thought of it last time. “Huh.” Last time they fucked, Connor thought about Hank tying him up. “Uh.” Connor wants to be tied up while Hank fucks him, and he planned it in advance. “Well.” A thought occurs to Hank. He indicates the tie. “You ever gonna be able to wear this to work again? Like, psychologically?”

“I doubt it. But we can save it for next time, if you like it.”

 _If you like it_. He doesn’t want this to be on him, not when Connor’s the one getting—fuck. “Let’s worry about if you like it or not.”

“Considering it’s one of my most reliable fantasies, I have trouble imagining I won’t.”

Hank gapes. There’s so much going on in that sentence. Too much? Too much.

Connor smiles, his eyes narrowing, looking oddly mischievous. He leans toward Hank. “I enjoy taking on a submissive role during sex. Have you noticed?”

Hank’s embarrassment wins out over his astonishment. He feels sufficiently chided, and a bit red in the face. “All right. C’mere, you dork.” Connor offers his wrists again, and Hank starts to bind them with the necktie. It’s an awkward process, and he struggles to get it not so tight it’s uncomfortable but not so loose it might fall off during… vigorous activity. “Do we need, like, a safe phrase? Is that a real thing?”

“How about, ‘this is no longer gratifying and I’d like to be untied.’”

“Okay, but you had better say it exactly like that.”

“I don’t expect our sex to be significantly rougher than last time. I don’t think we’ll need it.” Connor, wrists bound, peers down at him curiously. “You’ve never done this before.”

“Nope,” says Hank, not eager to linger on the subject of what he has and hasn’t gotten up to in bed, particularly now that he suspects Connor might be into… some things. He taps Connor’s wrists. “What’s the point of this if you don’t want it rougher?”

Connor looks up, lips parted. “To feel that I am absolutely yours.”

Hank’s heart does a funny little hop in his chest. “Okay.” He clears his throat and reaches for Connor’s ass. _Absolutely yours._ Dork. “Between this and your outfits, I feel like you _want_ me to have a heart attack.”

“I don’t,” says Connor, a sweet defensive lilt to his voice. Hank pinches his ass cheek and he yelps.“Pinching!”

“What, you like this—” Hank snaps a stocking strap on the back of Connor’s thigh. “—but not a little ass pinch?” He moves to pinch Connor again and Connor hops away, out of reach.

They look at each other, the air between them thick with tension.

Connor braces himself, and Hank feels a grin spreading across his face.

Hank’s not faster than Connor, but he’s bigger, and Connor has nowhere to run when Hank launches himself off the bed. Hank grabs Connor around the waist and lifts him, playful growls mingling with startled yelps. Connor beats weak, bound fists against Hank’s shoulders, and Hank laughs and laughs, burying his face between the half-empty cups of Connor’s bra.

“No pinching,” Connor squeaks.

“No pinching, baby. I got you.” Hank gives them a quick spin, Connor wiggling uselessly against him, before he returns them to the bed. He heaves Connor onto the bedspread and watches him tumble onto his back, legs and glasses akimbo, wrists above his head. His hair, loose from its hold, falls across his forehead, that one unruly curl bouncing into his eyes. He pants and his cheeks are stained red. One of his bra straps has slid off his shoulder.

Hank’s just going to be grinning for the rest of the night, he realizes. He can’t wipe the damn thing off his face. Hank hooks a massive paw behind Connor’s knee and drags him closer to the edge of the bed, where he can get to him.

The beautiful skin of Connor’s thigh has gone slightly pink from the snapping of the strap; Hank runs a palm over the spot. Connor twists his hips to the side, giving better access, and when Hank glances up, Connor’s teeth are on his lip.

Hank’s grin persists. He gives Connor’s bare thigh a good, hard smack, looking Connor right in the eye. Watching him.

The expression on Connor’s face when he does it is… It’s the kind of face that can and will fill Hank’s masturbatory coffers for weeks, the kind of face that makes him wish he were getting this shit on film. Connor’s mouth falls open, in surprise, in offense, in excitement. He gives the tiniest gasp, quick in the back of his throat.

“You like that?” Hank murmurs, running his palm over the red mark it left.

Connor can barely vocalize his answer: “Yeah.”

Hank smacks him again, same spot, and Connor writhes against the bed. “Christ, you’re fucking dirty, Connor.” Hank keeps stroking the red patch and reaches for the front of Connor’s panties with his other hand. “Look how hard that got you.” It’s true—Connor’s erection has grown too big for his underwear, the red, dripping head of his cock emerging through a cut-out in the front of the panties. It’s—hm—Hank bites his lip. His jeans are getting uncomfortable.

He gets an idea, a real stroke of genius. The lace overskirt of the underwear strains against the lift of Connor’s hard-on. Hank takes his thumb and rubs the lace against the tip of Connor’s cock—and gives him another smack on the back of his thigh while he’s at it, because why not?

“Oh, fuck,” Connor says, pressing his head back into the mattress. Hank drags the lace in a circle around the head of Connor’s cock, nice and slow. “Ah,” Connor says. His eyes are closed. His whole body shakes when he exhales. Hank presses his thumb hard against the tip. “ _Ah—_ ”

It could be the wine, it could be the fact that they’re finally alone, but Connor seems more vocal tonight already, even compared to their fuck in the back of Hank’s car. Hank has to talk himself down a bit, keep a level head about it: he’s got a mission tonight, to be just as good to Connor as Connor has been to him. He can’t do lingerie or tied wrists and he doesn’t look like a twinky centerfold. But he can fuck Connor good, the way he deserves to be fucked, the way he’s asking to be fucked showing up with all his creative little ideas. Hank can do that—he just needs to focus.

Part of that is not getting so caught up in Connor’s noises he forgets he’s running this show. If he doesn’t keep it together, the noises might stop, and that’s the worst possible outcome by far.

“Okay,” says Hank, pressing Connor onto his back. “Let’s see that cock.” He shoves the lace overskirt of the panties up and the crotch of the underwear down, freeing Connor’s erection through the cut-out in the satin. Connor gently kicks at Hank’s side.

“Be careful, those are new!”

“Yeah, and they’re made of nothing fabric. They might get ripped, Con.” Hank’s not going to act like he has the patience to painstakingly peel back ultra thin lace with his giant clumsy fingers before he sucks Connor off.

Connor moves to fold his arms across his chest, but he’s forgotten his wrists are tied, so he ends up flapping his elbows and glaring up at Hank. Regrettably, it’s cute.

“I will try not to ruin your fancy undies in order to fuck you in them.” Hank clambers across the bed to get the lube from the nightstand. “Even though I thought that was half the point of the things.”

“Don’t you want me to be able to wear them again?”

Hank glances at Connor, sprawled across his bed, dick out, hands tied. “You make an all right point.” He tosses the lube onto the bed where he can get to it, fast and easy. He has a feeling that his lack of patience about the underwear might carry over to a lack of patience in other things tonight.

Hank returns to the foot of the bed, to standing over Connor, who looks up at him with an open mouth, like a taunt. Connor doesn’t think of it as a taunt, he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but hits Hank that way—like Connor can’t wait, he’s all ready for Hank and Hank is making up lost time.

Hank’s hard-on presses painfully against the fly of his jeans, so he takes a moment to undo the button and lower the zipper, observing Connor’s rapt attention to the tent in his boxers. Connor notices he’s being watched—his eyes flicker up to meet Hank’s. Then he looks away, pink-faced. Hank laughs, nice and low, from his belly.

Hank has begun to sweat through his shirt, and he knows that’s not a good look, so he pulls it off and throws it to the side. Feels better, and he can tell from the way Connor licks his lips that it might not look too bad, either. He drags Connor another few inches to the edge of the bed and gets to his knees. Connor is hard—not as hard as he could be, not as hard as he’s going to be—but hard enough that it must be a little maddening to have Hank hovering around his exposed dick and not doing anything. His cute little dick with the mole on one side. Hank can remember seeing that mole in one of the first pictures Connor sent him and zooming in on it, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining things, seeing what he wanted to see.

Connor sighs above him and shimmies his hips down, closer to where Hank hovers between his knees. He wants it _bad—_ Hank snickers at the thought and wets his lips. He lifts one of Connor’s legs and drapes it over his shoulder, perfecting his access, really getting his angle. The sliver of underwear that wraps between Connor’s thighs is thin enough to be shoved to the side. Good.

Hank’s lizard brain wants to take Connor’s dick all in one go. He knows he could do it because he’s done it before; it’s quick and effective, it gets Connor hard and it gets Hank a step closer to being inside Connor.

But that’s not what the best version of Hank would do. The best version of Hank would draw it out—like he did in the car, teasing. Taking his time. Working up to the main event. Maybe making Connor beg for it.

Hank sighs to himself. He’s going to do the best version of Hank and he’s going to like it. He’s just—impatient.

He starts with his fingers, touching Connor’s cock with only the pads of one hand. Barely a touch at all, but Connor reacts, exhaling noisily, stirring against the bedspread. Hank swipes his thumb around the head and plays with the moisture formed there, dragging it up the shaft and between his fingers. His other hand wanders. It wanders across the bare upper sections of Connor’s thighs, coiling a stocking strap. It wanders between Connor’s legs, beneath his erection, to brush the bulging satin that conceals Connor’s balls. It wanders upwards, above the panties, stroking the exposed skin of Connor’s belly in time with the rhythm of Hank’s fingertips on his cock.

Connor is breathing heavily. He seems to be controlling his sounds, otherwise. But Hank hasn’t given anything to scream about. Not yet.

He plants a sloppy kiss to the skin of Connor’s thigh just beneath his panty line. He lingers there, kissing and sucking and giving him the occasional love bite, a reminder in a place only Connor and Hank will ever know about it. Then he moves up, to Connor’s cock. The second he shifts forward he sees Connor lift his head and look down hopefully. Hank meets his eye and smiles. Connor smiles back, if hesitantly.

His fingers gripping the base, Hank licks the spot right beneath the head of Connor’s cock. Connor’s brows come together, his lips part, his head falls back.

“Have I told you you got a pretty little dick?” Hank asks conversationally, mere inches from the tip of it. He scrambles to grab the lube with his free hand while also concealing any sort of scramble-like effort. Cool, calm, confident, even as he speedily squirts lube into the palms of both his hands because he’d almost started jerking Connor off dry.

“You haven’t,” Connor mumbles. He sounds unfocused, maybe even tired. Hank bites his lip.

“Well, you do.” Hank wraps his hand around the base of Connor’s shaft again, and drags the fist down his length, and in doing so drags a sigh out of him, too. A sweet, contented sound, but not needy. Hank wants him needy. “Very pretty. Just the right size.” He brings his fingers to the head and twirls them loosely around it, like you’d spin a top, and Connor shifts in place, a good sign. Hank repeats it once and then twice, with the addition of his tongue against the mole on the side.

He earns a real sound, that time. “Oh. Ahh.” Better, but not good enough.

Hank has an idea of how to up the ante. He lets go of Connor’s dick and coats his fingers in yet another helping of lube, because he’s about to discover exactly how this panties-on situation will work.

Connor stirs nervously around him as soon as he feels Hank pulling his underwear aside. There’s just enough give in the fabric to expose Connor’s asshole, thank fucking god, though Hank might have to hold it out of the way while he works. But that’s a nasty thought in its own right.

Hank puts the wet, slick pad of his finger against Connor’s entrance—just a test, just a question. Connor’s leg flinches and his heel makes hard contact with Hank’s shoulder.

“How’s it going up there?” Hank punctuates the question with a gentle kiss to Connor’s thigh.

“Fine. I’m fine.”

“You gonna keep kicking me?”

“Sorry, I’m—I’m excited.”

“Oh, baby.” Hank rubs the tight muscle. He leans forward, so Connor can feel the warmth of his breath there, so he can know what’s coming. “I’m excited too.”

At the promise of Connor’s favorite activity (and what a statement that is), the leg on Hank’s shoulder falls a couple of inches. Relaxing slightly. Giving him some slack.

Hank kisses Connor’s entrance. Just a brief kiss, a peck, followed by a single quick lick. Out the corner of his eye, he can see Connor wriggling into the bedspread, trying to steady himself in preparation for what’s coming. Hank lays the pad of his finger against Connor’s asshole again and presses inside him, slow and gentle. Connor takes a finger like a champ—he takes anything like a champ, but he seems relatively unaffected by the finger in particular. Until, that is, Hank gets deep enough to apply pressure to his prostate. That earns Hank the click of Connor’s tongue, followed by a slow sigh.

Hank removes his finger carefully, and goes back with his tongue. It’s no easy task to pull Connor open while also rimming him while also keeping his stupid underwear out of the way, but Hank manages. There couldn’t be a better motivator than Connor’s reactions, because Christ, he likes getting eaten out—his legs close around Hank’s shoulders, pulling him closer, and he pants in erratic bursts. “Hank…” Hank thrusts his tongue into Connor and Connor bites down on a groan. He nests his fingers in Hank’s hair, just about all he can do with his bound wrists. Hank takes out his tongue, goes back to tugging Connor open and running his tongue along the rim. “Oh,” say Connor, in a small voice. “Oh.”

Hank’s a bit harder and faster with his finger the second time around, and he gives Connor’s thigh a nice smack while he’s sliding it in. He sits up slightly, shrugging legs off his shoulders and hands out of his hair, intending to go back to Connor’s dick, only he gets distracted by the look on Connor’s face. His eyes have glazed over, his mouth hangs open though he keeps trying to close it and swallow drool. His wrists lie uselessly above his head. Hank stands over him, working his finger deeper, thrusting it against Connor’s prostate, noting how his legs twist and skim across the bed in answer. Not quite needy yet, but getting there.

Hank dips forward and begins to work Connor’s erection in time with the finger in Connor’s ass. At first he uses his palm, stroking with the motion of his finger, in and out. Then he uses his mouth: he laps at the head of Connor’s dick, at his mole, then swallows his length, all with a fingertip rubbing at his prostate.

This is what gets Hank the reaction he’s looking for, finally. He puts his mouth around Connor’s dick and presses his finger into Connor’s ass and Connor lets out an incredible moan, half-choked by spit, squeezed from his lungs. Connor’s narrow torso arches off the mattress, knees shaking. Hank hollows his cheeks against Connor’s length, slowly retracting, then sucking hard on the head, which makes Connor kick him in the side again, but at this point Hank has ceased to care. He wouldn’t mind looking in the mirror tomorrow, seeing bruises, and knowing he got them because he gave good head; it’d be a clear sign that he’s getting better at this.

He starts to bob his head on Connor’s dick. He can take almost the whole length in a single motion, meaning he can genuinely jerk Connor off with his lips and tongue. He adds a second finger in Connor’s hole, too, because he can feel Connor getting progressively more worked up, his breathing labored and his writhing desperate. Hank wants to nurture that need, to see it grow and get stronger.

It’s a successful effort. He bobs his head and thrusts his fingers against Connor’s prostate, and Connor starts talking. Or, half talking, half gasping. “Fuck, Hank. Haa—Hank. Oh, fuck, yes. Ahh. Yes. _Fuck_.” Hank would be grinning again, if he weren’t busy slobbering all over Connor’s dick. “Oh my—fuck, there. _Haaa_.”

Hank’s free hand strokes Connor’s stomach. He keeps going, Connor keeps talking. Hank pulls his fingers out and apart and Connor says, “Shit.” Hank slurps loudly against Connor’s cock and Connor says, “I’m going to come.”

The pulse of blood in Hank’s cock makes him feel like he just got punched in the stomach, but it’s fine, it’s might even be good. He drags his mouth down Connor’s full length and then releases him, a thread of saliva extending from his lower lip to the head of Connor’s dick. As soon as his mouth is off, his hand is on. Hank sits up so he can work, his fingers up Connor’s ass and his palm jerking him off. “That’s good, baby,” he says; he isn’t prepared for how rough and wet his voice sounds. 

“Huuh,” Connor blubbers. His eyes are screwed shut, and he’s pushed his glasses to his forehead. “Oh, fuck, Hank.”

Hank pumps faster. “You look good like that. Real pretty.” Connor presses his face into his elbow and starts to thrust into Hank’s hand. He’s flush from his temples to his stomach. “Beautiful,” Hank says, and means it. Maybe Connor needs to hear it, but that doesn’t make it less true.

“I’m—I—” Connor’s eyes fly open and he looks down—it’s Hank’s cue to look down too, and watch him burst, pumping and fingering him through it. “Fucking _shit_ ,” says Connor, an edge in his voice that reminds Hank of how he talks when he’s truly mad. He sits up off the mattress for a second while he empties onto Hank’s wrist and arm, and also Hank’s stomach, and a little on his precious new underwear. He looks almost surprised by how hard it hits him. The same way he looked when Hank slapped his ass. Funny.

As soon as it’s over, Connor sinks back into the mattress. His eyes fall closed. Hank lets go of his dick and slides the fingers out of his ass. That was absolutely fucking magnificent, he thinks, while Connor catches his breath. You’d have to be fucked up not to see how absolutely fucking magnificent that was.

It’s not a great moment for Hank to think about the last person Connor let touch him like this. It’s not a great moment for him to get angry, overwhelmingly angry, at what happened to Connor and how twisted it left him—no, not him, just his perspective on himself. It’s not a great moment for Hank to feel these feelings, because he doesn’t want to let even the loathing of that person into their bed anymore. His anger won’t help Connor heal, not right now.

Hank leans forward, crawling on top of Connor, and kisses his neck. He gets caught up sometimes, thinking about what Connor deserves, comparing himself to an ideal that exists nowhere but inside his head. _I will try to be good enough for Connor_. At least he’s trying. At least he knows he needs to try.

He hangs by Connor’s ear. “That was gorgeous.” Kisses his jaw. “You gonna be okay to do it again?”

“Fuck yes,” Connor sighs. It’s the first time Hank has heard him swear when he’s not actively getting action, and it makes Hank laugh.

“Yeah?” He’s still laughing when he says, “You want my cock?” So he might be undercutting the hot factor.

He feels fingers tug weakly at the elastic of his boxers. “Yes.”

Hank’s heart thumps his ribcage. He talks low, against Connor’s neck. “I wanna hear you say it.” When Connor gulps, Hank can hear the thresh of his throat.

“I want your cock, Hank.”

“Nice.” Hank smiles and pecks Connor’s cheek briefly before launching himself back down the bed. He wipes his arm on his jeans and hopes he remembers to throw them in the dirty laundry—knowing how mornings affect him, he’d throw them on in a blind rush and wouldn’t notice the cum caked on the thigh until noon on a workday.

He shoves his jeans and boxers down in a single motion and snorts at how Connor’s eyes go big and wide at the sight of Hank’s dick, like he hasn’t ever seen it, sucked it, taken it. Like he doesn’t have a photo of it on his phone. “You seem interested,” Hank says, kicking off the jeans and boxers.

Connor tilts his head thoughtfully. “Mmm.”

“Come here.”

Connor sits up slowly, then gets on his knees to crawl toward Hank, a bit of a challenge with his hands tied. Hank waits at the end of the bed, stroking himself lazily. He’s good and stiff at this point and it’s nice to get more stimulation beyond the friction of his boxers. And Connor’s mouth is open, as per usual. But Hank also knows he doesn’t want to spend too long on this—fingering Connor made Hank want to get deeper inside him, to make him feel full.

Connor must have the same inkling, because he gets his mouth around Hank’s dick right away, no cutesy licking or kissing as pretense. Hank stands perpendicular to the bed so Connor can suck him off without craning his neck. Connor’s got the whole weight of his torso on his bound wrists and it becomes pretty clear he’s not going to be able to keep his balance that way and give a proper blowjob. “I gotcha, baby,” Hank murmurs, pushing Connor off his dick briefly. He sits on the edge of the bed and reclines, giving Connor full access to his lap, and Connor nods appreciatively. He adjusts his glasses and crouches toward Hank’s erection.

By now Connor’s blown him several times, once even to completion, so he knows what Hank likes. He knows, for example, to swallow as much as he can and let it be loud when he chokes. He knows to moan, or maybe he just moans because he’s liking it—but Hank likes it too, so it doesn’t matter. Similarly, Hank knows to put a hand in Connor’s hair; the first time Connor swallows and gags, Hank gives him a hard tug, and he groans around the cock and chokes again. Hank has his free hand rubbing Connor’s shoulders, but as Connor bobs his head— _fuck_ , he’s good at that—Hank realizes he could reach Connor’s thigh.

So he does, giving the exposed skin a _thwack_. Connor, surprised, drops Hank’s dick to gasp. But he’s right back on it with that clever, outrageous mouth of his. No wonder he’s always got it hanging open, he’s _bragging_ , about how hot and thickly wet his tongue feels against a cock, about how he moves and moans and looks up at you with big brown eyes while he’s sucking you dry. They make eye contact and Connor can’t smile, what with the mouthful, but he can wink, and he does. Hank wraps Connor’s hair around his fist and pulls.

In answer, Connor swallows his full length again, and once he’s done gagging Hank announces, “All right, enough. Get on your back.”

Connor slides off him and wipes a large droplet of saliva on the back of his hands. “On my back,” he repeats, out of breath, dazed, as he moves to obey. Hank stands up again, looming over the foot of the bed.

Hank is _ready_ , and when he sees Connor lying on the bed with his legs open and his wrists tied and his lips swollen, his impatience takes over again. He grabs Connor’s thighs roughly and drags their hips together. Gives Connor’s dick a few strokes; he’s half-hard again after the blowjob. Lube, they need more lube—Hank fumbles for it, coming back with an excessive amount, but he wants this to be one hell of a fuck and they need to be comfortable. And then there’s the fucking underwear, in his way. Hank pries it aside and feels the stitches give threateningly, but Connor doesn’t say anything, just continues to lie with his eyes closed. He could be meditating.

Hank pushes a finger inside of Connor, and thinks maybe he fucked up the meditation, because Connor’s eyebrows knit together. Hank takes the finger out as quick as he put it in. He’s done with fingering for the night, he just wanted to make sure Connor was still soft and relaxed for him, and aside from the slight wince he seems unbothered.

With a deep breath and a couple of strokes to his now throbbing erection, Hank lines up and pushes an inch into Connor’s ass.

This wins more than a _slight wince_ from Connor. Hank gives him another inch and his eyes roll back. Another inch and he throws his head back, making a spectacle of his throat.

Hank leans forward to cage Connor between his arms. He kisses a mole, one right in the center of Connor’s chest. He gives Connor the rest in a single thrust and watches him suck in a frantic breath. “If I take you, Connor, does that make you mine?” Connor gazes up at him with half-lidded eyes. Hank stirs his hips against Connor’s ass and Connor turns his head sharply, letting out a whine. “Are you mine now?”

“Yes!”

“Mmm.” Hank slides out slowly, to the head of his dick. “I wanna hear you say it.” He thrusts back in, fast. Connor throws his head back into the mattress again, eyes squeezed shut. His cheeks are bright red.

“Ah, fuck!”

Hank repeats that same motion: all the way out, slow, and back in hard and fast. “Are you mine, Connor?”

“I’m yours, _fuck_.”

Hank grins and takes Connor’s cock in hand, giving him a firm pump in tandem with the press of his hips. “Good boy.” He’s bottomed out and he shimmies against Connor’s ass, hoping to stimulate his prostate. It seems to work, because Connor hisses and sticks his hands into his hair, elbows by his ears. “You like that dick?” Hank says, doing his best not to sound winded. “You want me to fuck you?” Connor is nodding. “You want it hard?”

“Please, oh god.”

“I know that’s how you like it.” Hank pulls out quickly and pushes back in at a taunting pace. He gives Connor’s dick a couple pumps—it’s fully hard again. “I know you can take it hard so I’m not gonna hold back. How’s that sound?”

“Please fuck me,” Connor… he _begs_. Just above a whisper. _“_ Please, Hank, fuck me hard, oh my god.” Yup. That’s begging.

Hank’s brain lights up like when you win the ring toss at a carnival. Sirens, bells ringing, prizes falling from the ceiling.

Begging is great, but Hank’s a sucker. Once it gets to that point he can’t say no. He goes for it.

He starts shoving himself into Connor over and over, again and again. He doesn’t know where he finds the energy for this shit, to fuck like this—there’s something about being with Connor that makes him feel young again, as though he were still a sexual powerhouse, like he doesn’t have bad cholesterol and back problems. Maybe he’s possessed and it’s a demonic entity or an alien or a ghost currently occupying his body and pushing into Connor, deep as either of their limited physical forms will allow, but it’s not like he’s a different person. This desire is his desire. He wants Connor and wanting Connor draws a strength from him he’d forgotten he had.

Connor moans. He’s moaned before, but not like this. It’s a combination of factors, probably—alcohol loosening his inhibitions, the continued stimulation of his plenty-stimulated prostate, the absolute privacy cocooning them. With every compression of Hank’s hips, he makes a sound. A lot of _ah_ and _uhh_ and occasionally a longer _ohh_. The best ones start low and pitch upwards at the end, or sometimes the other way around, Connor’s voice riding the octaves like a rollercoaster.

Put those sounds with the faces he’s making as Hank drives into him over and over, and it’s—the best. Hank wishes he had some more poetic thoughts about it. But the sounds and the contorted expressions of heady pleasure and the squeeze of Connor’s ass around his erection, it piles on Hank’s brain and he can’t think much other than _harder harder harder_ and _fuck yeah_ and _this is the best_. “Fuck yeah,” he hears himself mutter. He drags his mouth across Connor’s collarbone, letting him feel the pinch of teeth.

Hank is holding himself above Connor while he works, tipped forward over the foot of the bed, his arms straining. Not exactly comfortable, particularly when he has to reach down to push Connor’s panties out of the way for what feels like the eightieth time. And then, of course, his dick falls out. “Fuck,” he grunts. Connor gasps for breath and reaches downward with his uselessly restrained hands, like he wants to shove Hank’s dick back inside himself.

As much as Hank enjoys watching Connor’s face while they fuck, he knows he can’t maintain this pace and vigor positioned like he is. “Turn over,” he tells Connor, who does so, whimpering. He presents Hank with his ass, his perfect round stupid butt that devastated Hank from across the room earlier tonight. Hank shoves the panties out of the way, and the stitches that gave when he did this before give more. Hank can hear a tear open somewhere in the garment, though he can’t see it. “Oh, shit—”

“Don’t—care,” Connor wheezes. “Just put it back in.”

“Fuck, all right.” Hank hauls Connor toward him by the hips, and pushes back into Connor’s ass, per his request. He grips Connor’s shoulders, holding him steady, giving him a nice, robust thrust. He reaches forward to check on Connor’s cock, too, to make sure he’s still erect.

He had nothing to worry about, there: Connor is rock hard, and wheezes when Hank pumps him. “Oh my god.” Hank jerks him off through the first few of his thrusts, but he’s far from ready for Connor to orgasm again, so he eases off the cock and grabs Connor’s hair instead as he starts up his relentless, preferred pace. He’s got lube and probably leftover cum on his hand, which turns Connor’s sweat-dampened hair stiff and messy. He wraps curls around his fingers.

The rhythm of Hank’s hips is, in a word, aggressive. It’s _bam bam bam bam bam_ , and Connor answers in matching cries, _ah ah ah ah ah_. One hand in Connor’s hair and one on his shoulder gives Hank the opportunity for more torque. He moves in fitful bursts—faster and shallow, slower and deep. Hard to say which he prefers, since both are _the best_ , all of this is the best. When he’s fast and shallow he knows he’s hitting Connor’s prostate good, and he likes how Connor’s hole squeezes the head of his cock. When he’s slow and deep he pulls those low, rapturous moans from the bottom of Connor’s chest, and feels the curve of ass against his pelvis—they are uniquely close to each other in those moments.

Hank keeps hearing himself talk, though he doesn’t make the decision to speak. Mostly it’s mumbled things like, “Fuck yes.” Sometimes, “You feel so fucking good.” Occasionally just, “Oh, Connor.”

He might be embarrassed about talking so much if Connor weren’t blubbering constantly, when he isn’t moaning too hard to get words out. It’s swearing mostly, and, “Oh god yes right there fuck yes,” etc. At one point he says in a breathy voice, “Oh, yeah, Hank, fuck me.” _How the hell did this happen?_ Hank thinks, fucking him. _How did I get this lucky?_ He smacks Connor’s thigh, then snaps a stocking strap against it. Connor loses what remaining rigidity he had in his body—everywhere except for his dick, that is—and sinks forward onto the mattress. Hank’s dick slides out when he does, but Hank chases his ass down to the bed, pushing back inside, his stomach against Connor’s back and their legs mingling together.

Hank’s sweating buckets, and so is Connor. Hank’s chest hair clings to Connor’s exposed skin. Hank licks the sweat beading along Connor’s hairline, on the back of his neck, because this is already nasty and fuck it. He plows Connor right into the mattress, mashing his hips into the bed, hoping every thrust rubs his erection against the bedspread. Bless Connor’s big sexy brain, honestly, because he knows not to muffle his moans. Every time Hank thinks he’s getting tired, one of those moans hits him like a shot of adrenaline.

The sounds begin to climb higher, like they did the last time Connor came, only more frantic and harried and broken. “I’m going to…” Connor begins, losing the rest of the sentence when Hank pulls his hips off the mattress. He needs access to Connor’s cock, so he can stroke him to completion in rhythm with the thrusts. Words spill from Connor’s lips, half-finished thoughts. “Hank, yes, please. Oh Hank, fuck me, take me—I’m yours.”

Hank speeds up his palm on Connor’s dick. “Christ, Connor.” Connor’s hips start to twist and flinch as Hank rams him. Close.

“Yours,” says Connor again, a choked sob. Hank’s only regret is that he can’t see Connor’s face right now.

“Come on, baby. You can come.” Connor starts thrusting weakly into Hank’s hand and then kicks back onto Hank’s cock, coming hard. He doesn’t say anything when he does it, just yells—and like really yells, enough that Hank has a fleeting fear of the neighbors complaining about the cries of a young man in apparent pain. Hank stops fucking him while Connor climaxes, mostly because Connor clenches around his cock and it’s almost enough to make Hank come himself, but also so he can focus on draining Connor’s dick for the second time. “There we go,” Hank mutters. “Good boy.” Connor empties onto the bedspread. More laundry.

Hank pulls out to let Connor recover, stroking the small of his back. They sit there for half a minute like that, Connor face down and ass up, catching his breath; Hank stroking Connor’s back with one hand and his own leaking cock with the other.

Eventually Connor speaks. “Sorry.”

“Connor, you—that was fucking incredible.”

“Did you come?” he asks weakly, his face still buried in the bedspread. Hank glances down at his erection.

“Not yet.”

“I want you to come inside me.”

“I know, babe. I’m not sure you can—”

“I can do it,” Connor wheezes, pushing himself up. “I can do it. Let me ride you. I can do it.”

Hank almost refuses, because he has no idea how Connor’s going to handle having a dick in his ass after two orgasms in the span of an hour, and he doesn’t think Connor knows either.

But Connor is stronger than him. Even with his hands bound, he crawls toward Hank and pushes him to lie back. Hank gives in. Dirty talk aside, he doesn’t want Connor to break. At least he won’t need much to finish.

Connor grabs the lube and replenishes Hank’s dick, then throws his leg over Hank’s hips. He fumbles for Hank’s cock until Hank helps him line it up. Hank is happy to be able to see his face again—it ought to make this go faster. Both the straps of Connor’s bra have slid off his shoulders, now, and he’s covered in blushy red patches from head to toe. He slides right onto Hank’s dick, wasting no time, but he must not have been prepared for how that would feel. His head falls back and he squeaks, “ _Shit!_ ” Hank loves it, which he doesn’t feel great about, morally.

“You ready, Con?” he asks, running his palms over Connor’s thighs. It’s all he can do not to grab Connor’s hips and start bouncing him immediately. “You need me to be gentle?”

Connor drops his chin and looks Hank dead in the eyes. “Are you going to come if you’re gentle?” Hank hesitates, which is answer enough. “Then don’t be gentle. I can take it.” Connor’s not fucking around. He adds, quieter, “I might scream.”

“I think I can handle that,” says Hank, like it’s not the greatest news he’s ever heard.

Hank takes Connor’s narrow hips between his hands and pulls Connor down, impaling him on his dick. Connor throws his head back again—that seems like it’s going to be a theme, here—and whines. Hank lifts him slightly, relieving the pressure, then pulls him back down, faster than the first time. Connor takes a deep breath. He rests his wrists against the curve of Hank’s stomach and Hank can feel that the tie is wet, probably sweat and saliva, maybe some lube and cum. Whatever it is, it makes Hank weirdly horny, and he decides he’s just going to go for it. Connor can take it. He said so himself, and Hank has learned that he’s tougher than he looks.

So Hank bounces Connor on his dick. It feels stellar, jerking himself off with Connor’s hole. He’s done that dozens of times in this very bed, sort of, pretending that his own fist feels as hot and tight and wet as Connor does right now. Having the real thing in his memory bank is going to help him on future lonely nights, he guesses. The reality of Connor riding him puts his fantasized portrayal to shame. In his fantasies, for example, Connor doesn’t wail, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh shit,” over and over, because in his fantasies Connor isn’t usually two orgasms deep and still determined to take Hank’s cock. Hank would guess he’s going to be calling on that detail in the future.

Eventually he doesn’t have to bounce Connor anymore, because Connor starts bouncing himself, genuinely riding him. Hank lasts about a minute and a half like that, Connor squeezing him and jerking him off while he yells and yells because, “You’re so big, oh, fuck, that’s so much.”

Hank thinks maybe he’s talking too, but he loses track of exactly what he says. “Ride me,” was in there somewhere, and he definitely gets in another couple smacks to Connor’s thighs. He didn’t even know he was into that. Connor tries to cover his red face with his hands and Hank drags them away. He has to see it.

Amidst Connor’s blubbering, in between shit like, “Fuck me, Hank,” and, “I want your cock, Hank,” he says, “I love you, Hank.” His eyes are closed, his glasses are slipping down his nose, and he fucks himself on Hank’s dick and says, “I love you.”

Hank comes, slamming upward, curving off the mattress with a grunt. His toes curl and his nails dig into the beautiful skin of Connor’s thighs, where they will leave little bruises. His vision goes white. A good orgasm, a big one, but it’s been building in his gut for a while so he should’ve known. _I love you, Hank_. _I love you_. Fucking stupid, that that’s what got him, but he’s old now, he supposes, and more than sex he wants not to be alone. And somehow the companion provided by fate is the most perfect human being in existence. The most perfect human being in existence loves Hank. So, Hank comes.

He fucks up into Connor until he’s spent, then melts into the bed. Connor rolls off him right away, collapsing face-down. For a few minutes there’s nothing but their breathing and the steam curling off their bodies. The mood is different than the last time they slept together. More intense. Hank is afraid to say anything, lest he—what, wake up from the dream? That’s how it feels. Like he could shatter all this in a word.

He hears a small noise from beside him. Takes him a moment to place it as a sob.

“Hey.” Hank rolls onto his side, touching Connor’s shoulder. “Hey, hey. What’s going on?”

Connor is crying. Quietly, but he is. “I think,” he croaks, “I am slightly overstimulated.”

Hank scoops him into a massive hug, though they’re naked and disgusting and maybe it doesn’t even help. He helps untie his wrists. Connor snivels into Hank’s chest and Hank kisses his temple. “How can I help?”

“I don’t know. I… I want to rinse off.”

“Yeah, sure.” Hank helps him sit up. “Go get in the shower. I’ll be right there, okay? I’m gonna get us something to eat.”

Connor nods, too tired and choked up to think about what that means, and shuffles toward the bathroom with a wince. Hank grabs his jeans from the floor, fumbling for his phone.

 

 

###

 

 

“If you had asked,” Connor tells Hank about forty-five minutes later, “I would’ve said no pizza.”

“Which is why I didn’t ask.”

Connor glares at him, but he only laughs in response. The pizza does smell nice, and Connor is feeling significantly better now that he’s showered and in his pajamas, sitting on Hank’s couch, about to receive a slice of late-night pizza on a paper plate. Actually, the sitting part of it isn’t great just yet, but that’s why they picked the couch.

“Pizza is the only late-night delivery option around here.” Hank offers him the slice. Connor accepts, still pouting. “It was this or Chinese.”

“I like Chinese food.”

“Yeah, not this Chinese food. No one likes this Chinese food.”

Connor laughs. He takes an exploratory bite of his pizza. It’s greasy, but not bad. “The sauce is very flavorful.”

“Hell yeah it is,” says Hank, around a mouthful. He plops down onto the couch beside Connor. Connor sucks his teeth for a moment, then swings his socked feet into Hank’s lap. He wonders if it’s going to be weird, if he’s going to get a look, but Hank pats his ankle affectionately.

Connor smiles at his pizza. He takes another bite.

“So let me ask you something,” Hank says. Connor narrows his eyes. “You’re pretty serious about me.”

“I’ve made that clear several times.”

“And you introduced me to your friends. Risked your job for me. I know.” Hank looks curiously at Connor, holding his slice by his mouth. “When’s your lease up on your apartment?” Hank takes a huge bite.

The lease. At first Connor doesn’t understand what this has to do with anything. “August,” he replies, frowning.

“How d’you think Markus would feel living alone? Or finding another roommate?”

Connor blinks rapidly. “I don’t know. I would have to ask him.”

Hank nods. “I mean, if you’re ready, I want you to.”

“If I’m ready,” Connor echoes.

“To move in here with me and Cole.”

Connor loses hold of his pizza and nearly drops it into his lap, catching it at the last second. Move in with Hank. Move in with Hank and Cole.

“I know the Cole thing is big for you,” says Hank carefully. “And if you don’t like this house—”

“No, I like this house!” Connor didn’t mean to be quite so insistent about it and he shrinks in embarrassment. Hank is smiling.

“All right. So this house.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course, babe.” Hank squeezes his calf. “Think about it. August is a ways away. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Connor manages a nod. He glances around at Hank’s living room, which is quiet but for the ticking of a clock. This is the room where he kissed Hank for the first time. He’d noticed the family photos arranged on a side table his second time here, but he only now spots a picture of Cole with a woman who must be his mother. “You want me to live with you. Really?”

“You know,” says Hank lightly, looking at his pizza, “a couple of hours ago you had to convince me I was good enough to spend the rest of my life with you.” He glances up, an eyebrow raised. “After all that effort, you still don’t get it?”

“What is there to get?”

“Uh, that I’m fucking crazy about you?” Connor smiles to himself. A tiny, delighted grin. Before he can respond, Hank keeps talking. “Also, Jesus fucking _Christ_ you’re good in bed.” Connor’s little smile vanishes and he goes slack-jawed. Hank is very animated and seems annoyed. “I’m not trying to drag up bullshit from your past or anything, but you—you say these things. You’re all, ‘fuck me with your big dick, Hank’ and—” Hank shoves a finger into Connor’s face. “—and then when I repeat it back to you like I just did, you _blush_ , like you are right now.” Connor reaches up to touch his face. He does feel warm. Hank sits back, shaking his head. “It’s incredible. It’s fuckin’ incredible.”

“You say dirty things, too,” Connor mutters, a bit defensive, a bit flattered.

“Yeah, but I’m a horny old man. And you’re…” He gestures to all of Connor. “This.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Connor answers curtly.

“Yes, you’re _that_. That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

Connor feels odd, then realizes there’s a giggle bubbling up his throat. He lets himself laugh, because Hank is smiling, and being sweet, in his own strange, distinctly Hank way.

Hank stuffs the remaining crust of his pizza into his mouth and chews for a moment. He swallows. “Am I the first person you’ve been with since your ex?”

Connor’s appetite evaporates. He sets his half-eaten slice of pizza aside. “Yes.” Hank nods. He keeps nodding, his eyes out of focus. Connor takes the opportunity to ask a question that has weighed on him for several weeks. “Have you slept with many people?”

Hank coughs hard on the last of his pizza crust. He has to hit himself in the chest to clear it. Connor gets the feeling his question might have been inappropriate, and he fixes his eyes on his lap. “I, uh,” says Hank. “Like in my… whole life?” He clears his throat. “What’s many people? It’s, uh, relative.”

Connor lifts his head. He decides to be direct. He is better at being direct. “I’ve slept with three people.”

“Three, not including me?”

“Including you.”

Hank’s face is blank. “All right.” He scratches his beard. “All right. It’s more than three.”

“Significantly more than three?”

Hank pulls a face. “I’m fifty-three. I didn’t get married until I was in my forties.”

“You’re implying that yes, it is significantly more than three.”

“You mind me asking why you wanna know?” There’s an edge in Hank’s tone that borders on scolding. Connor pulls his legs out of Hank’s lap and tucks them under himself. Now Hank is glowering. “Connor.”

Connor stares at his knees.

“ _Connor_.”

Be direct. Direct is easier. “Sometimes when we’re having sex, I wonder about the people you were with before me. How you acted with them. With your wife, and…” Connor tilts his head, still gazing at his knees. “I don’t know why.”

It doesn’t make sense to Connor, but it seems to make sense to Hank. He opens his arms and beckons Connor over to his side of the couch. Connor submits, pressing into Hank’s side. The weight of Hank’s arm around his shoulders stills the anxious writhing of his brain for the time being. “I’ll tell you,” says Hank. “The number of dicks I’ve handled is _not_ significantly more than three.”

“Hmmm.” Connor puts an ear to Hank’s chest and smiles. “You’re good at it.”

“Thanks. I meant to fish for a compliment.”

With Hank beside him like a giant, huggable heater, Connor’s eyes drift closed.

“Hey.” Hank’s voice is right by Connor’s ear. He can feel it rumble. “Don’t fall asleep on me on the couch. Let’s go upstairs, if you’re tired.”

Connor _is_ tired, but he balks at the thought of going to sleep. It takes him a moment to figure out why. Going to sleep means waking up, and once they’ve woken up their time together is almost done. And he’s not ready for that. Not ready to let go of this night.

So Connor says, “No. Stay awake with me a little longer. Please.”

“Of course, babe. As long as I can.” He reaches for the remote. “Let’s watch something. You seen _Eraserhead_?”


	13. april may june

 

 

It is not the most glitter Connor has had to clean up in one go, but it’s a close second. The class was finishing up for the day, a project on family trees, and the students had begged to use glitter, a forbidden substance in Connor’s classroom. He relented because he was in an unusually good mood—the previous night he and Hank had a fun text exchange that ended in an even more fun phone call. Just before dismissal, a giant tub of silver glitter was upended onto the floor, and Connor had to let everyone go with the culprit still at large.

Connor hasn’t left a mess for the custodial staff in five years of teaching, and he doesn’t intend to start, so he accepts that he might be staying late tonight and gets to work on cleaning up the glitter with a dustpan and broom, which he quickly learns is not the ideal method for cleaning up glitter. It seems to multiply, somehow, and he knows he’ll be picking it out of his hair for the next month. Starting tomorrow the lifetime ban on glitter is reinstituted, he decides.

He’s on all fours, crawling around the classroom carpet, when someone knocks at the open door. He looks up and Amanda is standing there, smiling emptily at him.

“This is an unusual mess for you, Connor.”

Classroom tidiness _is_ one of Connor’s fortes. More experienced teachers have succumbed to the natural chaos of twenty plus seven-year-olds, but Connor has always been a stickler for order. He wants his students to come away understanding that their messes are no one else’s to clean up.

“We had an incident,” he tells Amanda, getting to his feet. “I’m going to address it first thing tomorrow.”

“I have no doubt you will.” Amanda steps into the classroom, her gaze skating across a collection of proudly displayed habitat dioramas. “I’m not here about the mess. There is something we need to discuss.”

Connor clears his throat and tries, and fails, to shake some of the glitter off his sweater. “Of course. Do you want to sit down?”

“I do not, but you should.”

Connor decides not to let that alarm him. He moves behind his desk and takes a seat. Amanda circles his classroom while she talks. “In your nearly six years here, I’ve never had a complaint about your behavior.” Oh. “Until this week.”

Connor feels his eyes go large and glossy. _A complaint about your behavior_. He sits still, hands folded on his desk.

Amanda inspects a half-finished family tree drying on the windowsill. “Are you aware of this parent’s issues with you?”

“You would have to be more specific,” says Connor, even though there is only one parent it could be. In the off-chance that he’s wrong and a second parent has a grudge against him, he doesn’t want to let Amanda in on the—problem.

“I’m referring to Caroline Phillips. Emma’s mother. She mentioned her husband as well, but I have only had contact with her.”

Connor forces a smile. “What are Mrs. Phillips’ issues with me?” It’s been three weeks since the gallery reception and he thought, foolishly, that he’d escaped Caroline Phillips and her passive aggressive vendetta.

“Favoritism. That you’ve been giving disproportionate amounts of attention to one of your students because of your relationship with that student’s parent.” Amanda turns to him and sighs. “I’m sure you know the student she’s referring to.”

Connor’s eyes drift to Cole’s desk. “Yes.”

“Do you think there’s any legitimacy to her complaint? You can answer honestly. I won’t reproach you.”

“I think…” Every teacher has favorites, it’s impossible not to have favorites. The key is not _playing_ favorites. “I try my best to give all my students equal individual attention based on their needs. And I also think—” Connor sits forward and turns his forced smile back to Amanda. “—I’ve made a conscious effort _not_ to favor Cole Anderson in the classroom, because I’ve been concerned about subconsciously altering my treatment of him. If anything, he’s probably getting less attention than he deserves. Given that he’s a bright student.”

Amanda’s head careens to the side. The corner of her mouth turns up. “I suspected that might be the case.”

Connor’s smile is gone. He can’t pretend he’s not annoyed, now. “What does she want? What does she expect you to do?”

“She requested that you be terminated and immediately replaced.”

Connor’s stomach churns violently. He pushes back from his desk, head bowed.

“I informed her that you have an immaculate record and the most I would do is suspend you for the remainder of the school year.”

That’s still bad. Suspended—he didn’t receive a single detention in school, and here he is as a teacher, earning a suspension.

“However, if you would like to know my honest opinion,” says Amanda, “Mrs. Phillips is a homophobe who thinks she can strong-arm me into firing you for the audacity of being a gay man who teaches children.”

Connor sits up. He stares at Amanda, at his boss, at potentially one of the most unrelenting individuals he’s ever known. She is shaking her head.

“I am hesitant to give you any sort of punishment, Connor, but if this woman feels I ignored her complaint, she may go to the superintendent, and I can’t guarantee he will understand the situation as I do.”

“I see,”says Connor, hoarse. “What… what should I do?”

“I will be giving you a warning strike. I apologize, but I believe it’s necessary.” Connor’s heart sinks. So much for his immaculate record. “And I’ll be assigning you a teaching assistant for the next two months, until the end of the school year. I think that should satiate Mrs. Phillips.”

“Okay. Okay. I accept.” A teaching assistant doesn’t sound bad, actually. An extra pair of hands and a firm adult voice never hurts in classroom management.

“Good. Then I believe we know how to proceed.” Amanda steps over the glitter mess. “I’ll leave you to resolve your incident.”

Amanda starts to go, and Connor knows what he has to say. The words stick in his throat for a moment. He gets to his feet. “Amanda.” She pauses by the door. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod. If he didn’t know better, he would call her unmoved, but he doubts that’s the case. Amanda simply prefers to keep her cards close to her chest. Connor is the same way—they’ve always understood this about one another.

“You’re welcome, Connor,” she says smoothly. “Thank you for your excellent work. I look forward to seeing more from you.”

 

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

 

“She said _what_ , exactly?”

“Her exact words were…” Connor clears his throat. He approximates Amanda’s voice and inflection as well. “ _Mrs. Phillips is a homophobe who thinks she can strong-arm me into firing you for the audacity of being a gay man who teaches children._ ” A benefit of Connor’s hyperthymesia: he doesn’t paraphrase.

Hank throws his head back and laughs, startling some nearby birds. They—Hank, Connor, Cole, and Sumo—are enjoying the first warm Saturday in April with a visit to the park near Hank’s house. Cole runs wild with Sumo loping beside him on the leash, leaving Hank and Connor to sit opposite one another at a picnic table and enjoy the thermos of warm apple cider Connor brought along. “You do a good impression of her, which I was not expecting,” says Hank. Connor shrugs; he’s good at voices. “Christ, I knew I liked that lady.”

“She’s a good boss.” Connor watches the steam curl off his mug. _The first warm Saturday_ means the first Saturday north of freezing, so it’s not balmy. “They’re going to give me a teaching assistant for the rest of the year. I suppose to make sure all the students are receiving adequate attention.” Hank nods, though he’s grimacing too. “And I’m—I will receive an official strike on my disciplinary record. Which is relatively meaningless, because my record is otherwise clean.”

Hank gives him a sideways frown. “You hate that, don’t you? Them taking away your perfect record.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong. Amanda said herself that it’s just for show, so Caroline feels—heard.”

“Sucks to live in a world where we gotta make homophobes feel heard.”

“It does, it’s—not fair—” Connor hears the edge in his voice and stops. He shakes his head.

Hank is watching him with a sympathetic frown. “You’re allowed to be angry.”

“It won’t change anything.”

“Maybe not this time, but it’s healthier than pretending like it doesn’t bother you.”

Connor makes a small sound of disbelief. He glances over Hank’s shoulder, where he can see Sumo has found a stick, or perhaps a small tree branch, and has Cole chasing him.

Connor’s breath comes out in a white puff. “I wouldn’t be angry if I hadn’t been… trying _not_ to favor Cole. I know I wasn’t doing what Mrs. Phillips said I was doing, because I was going out of my way to do the opposite.”

That piques Hank’s interest. “You were?”

“Yes. I didn’t want our relationship outside of class to affect my treatment of him as an educator.”

“Well, yeah, of course you wouldn’t want our thing to—”

“Not _our_ relationship,” says Connor. “Cole and I’s relationship. A line between time I spend with him as his teacher and time I spend with him as your person. How I feel about you affects how I feel about Cole, obviously, since he’s your son. But we have an independent relationship, too.”

Hank stirs curiously. “And what’s that relationship like?”

“It’s positive!” Sometimes Hank slips into interrogation mode when he’s trying to figure out a situation. He asks question after question without any hint about why he wants to know. Connor can become defensive. “I think we have a positive relationship. I like Cole. We’re friends.”

Hank senses he’s pushed enough. He taps the side of his cider mug. “That’s good. Positive is good.”

“Really?” says Connor, deadpan.

“Okay, yeah, razz me. I deserve that.” Hank exhales, puffing out his cheeks. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… it means something to see you trying with him. Not just as your student, because you were always going to do that. But as his—for me, I guess. Seeing you trying for me, that’s a big deal.”

Hank gives Connor a soft smile, and Connor feels compelled to turn away. The way it squeezes his chest is uncomfortable. “I hope it’s enough.”

“Trying is enough. Trust me.” Hank shoves a hand through his hair. “I mean, it’s all uncharted territory here.”

“For me,” Connor agrees. Hank has been Cole’s father for seven years. Cole was raised in a two parent home, for a time. Connor is the inexperienced party.

“For all of us,” Hank corrects. “I’ve never had to do this before. I have no idea what I’m doing. The three of us are just gonna take it one step at a time and…” Hank waves vaguely. “Be a weird little family, I guess.”

Connor smiles, but it’s difficult to shake feeling that Hank has sanitized the situation. Connor pours himself a little more cider. Distantly, Cole is yelling at Sumo not to “go in the mud,” and Hank seems remarkably unconcerned about his dog making a mess. He’s more focused on Connor.

Hank sits forward. “You’re not convinced.”

“I…” Connor fidgets. “I will be eventually. I’m not sure it’ll be easy. Soon we’ll have to tell Cole, and I…” He loses the thought. No, he doesn’t—he wishes he could lose the thought. “I don’t want to disappoint him. Or you.”

Hank reaches for Connor’s arm and peels one of his hands off his mug, so he can hold it. “You are not disappointing anyone. I swear. Especially not me.”

Connor gives Hank’s fingers a small squeeze. “I’m not sure Cole will be able to separate me from his mother the way that you can.” He expects the mention of Cole’s mother will derail Hank. Connor avoids bringing her up, usually, but he thinks about her—too much, maybe. Particularly in the last couple of weeks, since he’s been spending more time at Hank’s house, and there are mementos everywhere. Furniture he knows Hank didn’t choose, napkins embroidered with unfamiliar initials, photo albums. He never mentions any of it, just adds it to a list he’s keeping somewhere in the back of his mind.

Hank, however, is unruffled by the reference. He barrels onwards. “You know, you’re right, he might not be able to. But there’s tons of shit kids don’t get, and the only way they start to get it is if you try and explain.” Connor can recognize his own pedagogical values being turned against him. He narrows his eyes. “So we’ll do our best. Which is the most we can do, I’m pretty sure. That’s being human, Connor.”

Connor is quiet for a beat. Hank is… Perhaps no one can be truly correct in a situation like this, but Hank makes valuable points. Cole has always given Connor a chance, as much as a seven-year-old can, and it’s only fair he does the same for Cole. He can’t look at Cole right now and see beyond Hank’s son, his student, but that doesn’t mean the two of them will never be father and son. Family can develop, it can change. He can’t expect to slot into the vacancy in Hank and Cole’s lives like a long-missed puzzle piece. That’s not how this works.

Hank pats the back of Connor’s hand, pulling him from his thoughts. “It’s gonna be fine, babe.”

“I know.” Connor pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. He’s started to wear them more on his days off, when he knows he’s seeing Hank.

“It’s not that long before we can tell Cole what’s really going on,” says Hank, watching his son try to drag his dog away from a muddy puddle.

“Are you sure he doesn’t already know?” Hank pulls a face, and Connor elaborates, “You’re holding my hand where he can plainly see it.”

Hank blinks at their linked fingers, and untangles himself from Connor. “I thought you were going to call me out when I did stupid stuff like that.”

He’s not wrong. A couple of months ago, Connor wouldn’t have let Hank touch him where Cole could see. But it’s become increasingly clear that their relationship will last beyond Connor’s tenure as Cole’s teacher. In the event of a break-up, Cole will have known Connor as more than his teacher for a while—it won’t make a difference when they started holding hands. Connor thinks of the horrible, cruel smile Caroline Phillips gave him at Markus’s party. “I think I’m tired of hiding.”

Hank’s face goes crooked with a grin. He scoops Connor’s hand up in his own again. “I like hearing you say that.” Hank’s eyes light on something over Connor’s shoulder. He drops Connor’s hand and clambers to his feet. “Ah, shit. Sumo, get the hell out of the mud!”

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

Hank can remember being in school and feeling like the weeks went by at a snail’s pace—the time that passed between September and June contained multitudes, lifetimes. He was a stoner in first term and a goth in the second.

Now that he’s old, he feels like he goes to sleep in February and wakes up in May. Parts of this year were unique—being apart from or at odds with Connor nearly killed him—but once him and Connor are together time resumes its unrelenting pace. They’ll manage to grab breakfast before Hank has a Saturday shift, and then it’s two weeks since they last saw each other. If not for the wonders of modern technology allowing them to talk (and so on) when they can’t be in the same room, the time might not go by so quickly, but they get just enough interaction to tide them over between the infrequent, holy days when their calendars align.

(7:19 PM) _You know, once school is out, my schedule clears up_

(7:20 PM) fuck I forgot you get summers off

(7:20 PM) big plans?

(7:21 PM) _Yes_

(7:21 PM) _I plan to be waiting for you in your bed every night_

(7:22 PM) _And some afternoons_

Hank chuckles at his phone. Connor’s getting funnier, more laid back about shit. He’s comfortable with Hank, and Hank is delighted by the raunchy, relaxed person he’s coaxed out. They have fun.

(7:24 PM) I can’t fuckin wait

(7:24 PM) _It’s only four weeks_

(7:25 PM) Seriously??

(7:25 PM) Christ on a stick

(7:26 PM) I gotta answer that email about conference times dont I

(7:27 PM) _Yes, but I wanted to butter you up before I reminded you_

(7:28 PM) It’s so hot when you manipulate me babe

The final parent-teacher conference of the year—their final parent-teacher conference on opposite sides of the desk. It’s bizarre to think about the other two times they’ve _conferenced_. The first gave them their first full conversation, and the second their first… about a dozen other things. That second one is going to be hard to top.

Also hanging over Hank’s head is the year-end picnic, in which Cole’s entire grade and all their parents will gather on the lawn and do field day stuff and eat hot dogs. The field day and the hot dogs are fine, whatever. Hank is more worried about seeing Caroline Phillips in person again—not because he’s scared of her, but because he’s scared of how he’ll behave around her. If he’ll be able to hold his tongue. What if she starts talking about Connor? What if she makes a scene?

Hank has trouble imagining he wouldn’t tell Caroline Phillips off if anything were to happen. He can keep his cool, sure, he just can’t hold his tongue. He doesn’t care about Caroline’s feelings, but he cares about Connor, and by extension Connor’s job and his reputation. It’s not worth jeopardizing Connor for the sake of giving Caroline Phillips what she deserves.

Because she’d deserve it, if he told her off. He’s got some choice words for that woman and she’s earned every one.

Hank shakes the angry thought from his head and refocuses on his text conversation with Connor. He’s sitting in the kitchen, taking a break from the dishes.

(7:30 PM) What should I bring to the picnic

(7:31 PM) _Didn’t you read the email? It had assignments for all the parents_

(7:31 PM) It was a long email…

(7:32 PM) Highlights??

(7:32 PM) _I am not going to repeat the contents of the email to you_

(7:33 PM) But it’s easier for me to focus on it if I get a personalized version

(7:33 PM) _Read the email_

(7:34 PM) what’s the point of dating the teacher if I still have to read the emails

(7:34 PM) _I am not going to dignify that with a response_

(7:35 PM) _Read the email, Hank_

Hank relents and scrolls through the email. He’s been assigned _brownies (box mix)_. He rolls his eyes.

(7:37 PM) Funny

(7:38 PM) _I didn’t want to overwhelm you_

By the time the picnic rolls around, it’s mid-May, and the weather has traipsed from bearably chilly to sweaters-sans-jackets, and around noon it even gets a little warm. The kids have a half-day and the parents are supposed to roll up in the afternoon, meaning Hank takes off from work in the late morning.

“And what if I need you?” Gavin asks, as Hank shuts down his computer.

“You, need me? Don’t sell yourself short, Reed.”

“I’m just saying, the warrant for Sigman could come through any time today.”

“If that happens,” Hank says, pulling on his coat. “I’ll… gimme a call and I’ll figure something out, okay?”

“We need to execute that warrant immediately.” Gavin is glaring. He seems unusually dedicated to his work now that it’s getting in the way of Hank doing what Hank wants. “You better watch your phone.”

“‘Course I will. Just for you, buddy.”

“I’m not fuckin’ around. I’ll come to your kid’s school and drag you out if I have to.”

Hank watches Gavin take a sip of coffee, find it too hot, and gag. “Yeah, all right, Reed. You do that.” Sigman isn’t a flight risk, so he’s not sure if Gavin wants to humiliate him or creep on his life. Either way, Hank will deal with that problem if and when it arises.

Hank and his box brownies leave the precinct and head over to the school. As he’s pulling up, he can see the lawn is covered in people, milling around long tables and lining an athletic field.

It’s hard not to look for Connor the second he arrives, particularly since he’s supposed to be looking for Connor’s class in general. They have their own banner stuck into the grass—Hank spies it at a distance, then sees Cole hopping up and down, waving to him. He’s wearing a red penny over his sweatshirt.

“Are you ready for the race, Dad?”

“For _me_ to race?”

“No, I’m gonna race!”

“Oh, yeah, I’m ready for that.” Hank takes Cole’s hand and glances around. “When does the race start, bug?”

“If you do the race you get a ribbon,” says Cole excitedly. It might’ve been presumptuous to expect a real answer from him.

“It starts in ten minutes,” comes another voice. Hank turns and there’s Connor, looking—oddly un-Connor-like, in athletic shorts and a t-shirt featuring an owl, the school mascot. He wears running shoes. Hank didn’t even know Connor owned running shoes.

“Thank you, Mr. Connor,” says Hank, trying not to laugh. It’s been a while since he had to put the mister in front of the Connor, and it gets more absurd every time.

Connor gives him a fidgety smile. Hank can see him glancing around, trying to gage how normal they look, having a conversation among the crowd of parents and kids doing the same. Hank follows Connor’s eyes to a large clump of adults, where he recognizes Caroline Phillips.

A man who must be Mr. Phillips has his arm around her. She turns her head and locks eyes with Hank. He gives her a little wave. She doesn’t wave back, her mouth a thin line.

“Delightful,” says Hank under his breath. “Has she said anything to you?”

“Just hello. Not much more.” Connor rubs his bare arms.

“You cold? You want my jacket?”

Cole looks up at Hank. “Your jacket wouldn’t fit Connor.”

“That’s okay, it can still keep him warm.” Hank touches Cole’s hair. “And you gotta call him _Mr._ Connor, bug.”

“But you don’t.”

Connor raises an eyebrow at Hank, who grins. “He’s not my teacher. He’s Mr. Connor at school, okay?”

Cole squints incredulously between Hank and Connor, then shrugs.

“I have a sweater in my bag, but thank you, Hank,” says Connor, giving Hank a look that wonders, _Are you stupid?_ Maybe public clothes sharing isn’t the most obviously platonic thing, but Hank just wants Connor to be warm. And cute. Cute and warm. “We’ll warm up when we race, won’t we, Cole?”

Cole nods eagerly. “We’re gonna run as fast as we can.”

“You’re going to race a bunch of kids?” Hank asks Connor, biting his lip.

“It’s a baton relay. The teachers do the first leg, and the students do the last three.”

“I like it,” says Hank. He’s being a shit about it, he knows, and Connor briefly sticks his tongue out in opposition to the joke.

Actually watching Connor run isn’t as funny as Hank thought it would be. He’s good at it, and he looks hot mid-stride. Hank catches a couple of mothers beside him watching Connor stretch and giggling and decides he’s going to listen in, because how could he not?

“So cute,” one of them murmurs.

“And not married. It’s unbelievable,” says the other.

“If I were single,” the first one replies. The women giggle again.

Hank doesn’t know the appropriate thing to be feeling, but he has to hide his grin behind his hand. Cole gets the baton a second later, and Hank is distracted cheering him on.

The team from Connor’s class comes in second, though Cole is so pleased with the ribbon he receives he might as well have come in first. He immediately runs over and displays it proudly for Hank, who high fives and hugs him.

There are more activities and more ribbons as the afternoon rolls on. Watching Connor tend goal in a soccer match is almost as fun as listening to the young mothers fawn over him at the sidelines— _Can I just say? Not to be scandalous, but he has a cute butt_. Hank’s self-satisfaction is through the roof.

Connor doesn’t pay Hank any special attention, for the most part, because he can’t and shouldn’t. He’ll find Hank when he’s able, if he’s able, Hank supposes—it’d be selfish of him to wish for more than that, when Connor is busy doing his job. Hank does see Amanda at a distance and wave; she answers him with a nod. He hopes she can sense the _thank you_ in the thumbs up he gives back.

Connor sidles up to Hank as the picnic-slash-field-day events enter their final furlong, offering him a sausage on a bun.

“You’re encouraging me to eat this?” says Hank, already chewing his first bite.

“It’s a picnic. I’d rather you eat white meat than red.”

Connor holds a hot drink for himself. Tea or cider, Hank would guess. The two of them watch Cole compete in his last event, a three-legged race.

“Did you know,” says Hank, glancing sideways at the moms, who are doing their best not to look like they’re ogling Connor. “A lot of these moms are into you?”

“Into me?” Connor peers at the mothers, who all look at their phones in tandem. “Are you sure?”

“Yup. Been listening to ‘em talk about it all afternoon. The ladies want that ass, Con.” Hank stares out at the field deliberately—he doesn’t need to look to know Connor is blushing. Hank is hyper-conscious of the distance between them, the foot or so that separates their elbows, where they stand side-by-side. “And I’m the only one who gets it.”

“Shut up,” Connor murmurs, a laugh in his voice.

“Hey, at least I figured out something I have in common with the other parents in your class. We’re all hot for teacher.”

Connor gives his arm a playful shove. “You’re embarrassing,” he whispers.

Hank chuckles. He checks on Cole’s progress in the race, and catches a cold pair of eyes staring at them from across the field. “Look at that. Mrs. Phillips is monitoring us.”

Connor follows Hank’s gaze and sees Caroline openly glowering at them. The tiny smile on his face fades into a frown.

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told everyone she knows,” Hank grunts, then takes a huge bite of sausage.

“Maybe she’s embarrassed because she failed to get me fired,” says Connor, sounding far away. He holds Caroline’s stare while he talks.

“Maybe,” says Hank, with a mouthful.

Connor reaches between them and touches Hank’s arm. He turns to smile at Hank, an oddly terrifying grin.Hank swallows. Caroline is still watching them. “What if,” says Connor, “I kissed you right now?”

The sentiment, the thought of bold rule-breaking and shattered heterosexual hearts, floods Hank’s chest with warmth. There’s a second where he thinks, _oh hell yeah_ , and he imagines they start making out in front of everyone.

But it’s just a second. “Don’t, Connor.”

“I want her to see it.”

“It’s wildly sexy of you to ask, but I want you to keep your job.”

Connor’s brows pinch together. He lets go of Hank’s arm. “Fine. But I’m going to do this—” Connor reaches for Hank’s face and, before Hank can flinch away, tucks a loose strand of hair behind Hank’s ear. “There.” He faces out and winks at Caroline across the field.

Hank doesn’t speak. He has no clue what to say. He thinks he might be dating a mythological creature or cryptid of some kind. This person Connor has become, a man who winks—a person he always was, maybe, but who he rarely let show—is nothing short of phenomenal. Connor has always glowed, in Hank’s eyes, but when Hank looks at him now the shine seems brighter.

“Connor and Hank. Hank and Connor,” says a voice like Connor’s, but not quite, behind them. They turn together, and Niles is standing there, with—Gavin, who looks pissed.

Hank pulls out his phone. _6 MISSED CALLS (Det G Reed)_. Oops.

“You said you were gonna keep an eye on it,” says Gavin angrily. “I’ve been—”

“This thing found me in the parking lot and asked about Lieutenant Hank Anderson,” Niles says, cutting Gavin off as though he hadn’t spoken at all.

“Hank, who’s this?” Connor asks, smiling at Gavin. God, Hank didn’t think to warn Connor about his partner. He’d just hoped they’d never meet.

“Uh, this is Detective Gavin Reed. Reed, this is—” Hank grimaces. “This is Connor.”

Gavin’s mouth falls open. “ _You’re_ Connor? From the flowers?”

“Hey, Reed,” says Hank, stepping between him and Connor. “If you’re here I’m assuming you wanna go execute that warrant, so why don’t you wait in the car for me?”

“You sent him flowers?” says Niles to Connor. “Isn’t that a little trite?”

“Roses aren’t trite, they’re classic.” Connor tugs on Hank’s sleeve. “Do you need to go?”

“I think so, yeah. I just gotta say goodbye to Cole. I gotta say bye to my kid, Reed, I’ll meet you at the car.” Hank shoos Gavin, who relents and stalks off back to the parking lot.

“Are you going to arrest someone?” Niles asks. There’s genuine curiosity in his tone. “A murderer?” What a freak.

“Yeah, maybe,” says Hank, shooting Niles a glare. He cranes his neck to see what’s going on with Cole and the race—it’s over and Hank missed the end, shit. Seems like they’re handing out ribbons.

“Hank.” Connor’s voice, quiet and serious, grabs Hank’s attention. “You should go. I’ll tell Cole what happened.”

Hank’s caught off guard. “You sure?” He’s not sure he’s ever heard Connor offer to look after Cole on his own like that.

“Yes.” Connor smiles into his eyes. “I can drive him home after the picnic and stay with him until you’re back. Go get the bad guy.”

Hank squeezes Connor’s shoulder. It’s the only pseudo-platonic gesture he can think of, in the moment. “If I could kiss you I would.” He’s—he’s got to lock this down. Somehow.

“Gross,” says Niles, examining his nails.

A couple minutes later, Hank is climbing into the car with Gavin, who you would think would want to fill him in on the status of the warrant.

Instead, the first thing Gavin says is, “That was the brother.” Like he’s been holding onto it for the past five minutes, just waiting for Hank to return.

Hank sighs. “What?”

“That guy. Who showed me where you were. He looks like Connor, they’re brothers?”

“Yeah, Detective. The dipshit brother. Niles.”

“Niles,” repeats Gavin, starting the car. “Yeah, Niles.”

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

Connor assigns Hank the final conference of his night, and of his year. Nine o’clock. The same time they met back in February.

It’s warm enough for Connor to pop open a window and let the spring night in. The posters hanging above the clusters of desks flutter in the breeze. He leaves the classroom door propped open and sits at his desk. He has plenty to do to pass the time until Hank arrives—final report cards, a leftover batch of spelling tests, his self-evaluation—but he can’t concentrate on any of it. His stomach and chest writhe in his torso. He keeps straightening his tie compulsively.

He doesn’t know why he’s nervous. Because he _is_ nervous, unusually nervous. Excited, too, to see Hank, for the summer to arrive in just a few days. But nervous. He feels he is on the cusp of something large, like he’s toeing the edge of a cliff. At the foot of the cliff there’s a lake—if he jumps, he’ll plunge into the water, it will give way and swallow him in its frigid embrace.

But the lightness of anxiety finds him, anyway. Sometimes the human brain defies logic. It continues to deliver warning messages in situations where they aren’t needed. It keeps asking, _Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?_

“Mr. Connor.”

Connor starts. Hank is standing in the doorway, squinting, smiling. “Hi. Hello.”

“Can I come in?”

“Yes. Please do.”

Connor gets to his feet and indicates the chair positioned opposite his desk. Hank enters the room and takes that seat. The sense of déjà vu is overwhelming. What had they said to each other, the first time?

_“The puppy. What kind of dog is it?”_

_“Saint Bernard.”_

_“A very big dog,”_ Connor had said.

A silly, mundane comment, Connor now recognizes. He was trying to make conversation. He felt drawn to Hank, even then.

“All right,” says Hank. “You wanna talk about Cole?”

“That’s why we’re here, yes.” They’d had a similar exchange the second time they met like this. “Academically, he’s strong. He has a genuine interest in learning, and particularly in math and science, which I would advise you to nurture outside of school.” Hank nods, a tiny smile on his lips. “His reading level is suitable for entrance into the third grade.”

“So you’re not going to hold him back?”

“No, Lieutenant. I am not going to hold him back.”

Hank pumps his fist in victory, and Connor swallows a laugh. “Socially, the first year in a new school can be difficult, but I think Cole has done well. He’s friendly and empathetic. He can be excitable, but that’s not uncommon in children his age.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I’ve outlined a couple of small linguistic issues to keep an eye on. You’ll find them in the detailed section of his report card.” Connor clears his throat and raps his fingers against his desk. “And I—do you have any questions for me, Lieutenant?”

“Woof,” says Hank, leaning back in his chair. “Questions for you? Damn, let me think.”

“Questions about _Cole_.”

“Oh, about Cole? No, I don’t have any questions about Cole.”

Connor waits a moment, unsure if he wants to broach whatever Hank is holding behind his back, metaphorically speaking. Hank’s eyes narrow mischievously. “Do you…” Connor sighs. “Do you have questions for me that aren’t about Cole?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Hank sits forward. “I do have some questions.”

“Okay. Ask me your questions, Lieutenant.”

“How do you feel about marriage?” Hank asks, head tilted. “As an institution?”

Connor feels color go to his cheeks. He hasn’t outright responded to Hank’s suggestion they move in together in August, besides confirming that Markus wouldn’t mind. “As an institution,” says Connor, “I think it can be effective for some couples.”

“Would you ever wanna do it?”

Connor swallows hard. He isn’t sure what his face is doing, other than turning red.

“Hypothetically,” Hank adds. His kind blue eyes light up his face and the room. “If you were to, you know, meet the right person.”

“I—I would seriously consider it.” Connor swallows hard. “For the right person.”

“Hm, so, if the right person had gone out and busted half a month’s pay on rings because he couldn’t stop thinking about you, you wouldn’t be mad at him? If he was the right person.”

Connor sits there, open-mouthed, his heart pounding in his chest. His hands tremble.

Hank spots the tremors and winces. “Too fast?”

“No,” Connor manages. “I just—you.” If there was ever more to that sentence, it’s lost when Connor’s tongue turns to lead, because Hank is reaching into his pocket.

“All right,” says Hank. “Fuck it, I guess.” He pops open the ringbox it and sets it on the desk in front of Connor. “This doesn’t have to be a thing where I get down on one knee, I don’t mean it like that. Especially if you’re not into it or ready for it or… But I didn’t want to hide them from you—Connor, are you okay?”

The rings are plain sliver bands. Wedding rings, not an engagement ring. The kind you’d wear everyday of your life, as an outward display of love and commitment. Connor’s face has gone fully numb, which is why Hank asks how he’s doing, most likely. He has to dig around for his voice. His heartbeat roars in his ears to the point where it muffles his words. “I’m okay.”

Hank waves his hand over the rings. “Are you hating this?”

Connor looks up slowly from the little velvet box and its revolutionary contents. “No. I’m not.”

“Yeah? This stunned silence is a… positive reaction?”

The lake at the foot of the cliff calls to Connor, its water lapping the shore. His toes are on the precipe. He just needs to jump.

Connor stands up. He stands up suddenly, forcefully, and his chair goes flying back from his desk, and Hank jumps back from the desk. “Yes!”

“Jesus!”

“I want to do it. I want to get married. And I want to live with you.”

“You, uh, knocked over your chair?”

Connor snatches a ring from the desk and pushes it onto his left ring finger. His heart sinks. “It’s too big,” he says, wiggling the metal against his knuckle.

“We can get them resized. You’ve got skinny little fingers.”

“Okay.” Connor reluctantly returns the ring to the box, his chin wobbling.

Hank’s surprise is slipping into amusement, maybe happiness. No, definitely happiness. Connor has never seen him grin quite so wide. “Hey, Con?”

Connor swallows several times, suppressing disappointment about the ring, suppressing tears about—about everything. He pulls his chair back up and to his desk and takes a seat primly. When he addresses Hank, he flips back into professionalism. Or, tries to. His chin still wobbles. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“You wanna come over?”

“Yes, I would like that. Very much. I’d like that.”

Hank laughs and buries his face in his hands. “Christ. All right.” Hank gets to his feet. He gathers the rings.

Connor, on an impulse, driven by a strong memory, extends his hand across the desk, offering Hank a handshake.

He senses the gesture puzzles Hank. Understandable—sexual and/or romantic partners don’t typically shake hands. But it is customary, too, for men to shake upon the opening and closing of a contract.

Hank slots his hand into Connor’s and gives it a firm pump. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” says Connor. The use of his title helps Hank comprehend why they’re doing this. He manages a nod.

As he goes, he stops with his hand on the doorknob. “You know, this—” He gestures between them. “—was supposed to be a mistake. You remember that?”

“Everybody makes mistakes, Hank.” Connor’s lips sit parted. He’s moved to wink. “Except for me.”

Hank guffaws and shakes his head. “Yeah, all right, smartass. I’ll meet you at home?”

“Yes. I’ll meet you at home.” The word echoes in Connor’s head. He is going home, _home, home_.

Connor sits alone for a long minute, his mind swimming peacefully in the lake at the foot of the cliff. He runs his fingers along the collar of his shirt, tests the knot of his tie. He begins to undo it. He slides the tie out from beneath his collar, folds it neatly, and tucks it into a desk drawer.

Then he gathers his things and heads home, _home, home_.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on twitter @uhhra69 where i only tweet about dbh and fic because i have nothing else to say

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [As We Grow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16514369) by [Northisnotup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northisnotup/pseuds/Northisnotup)




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